Keeping Grounded
by The White Masque
Summary: Mulder is dealing with the implications of his impending death while Scully is attempting to determine what she really wants out of life. Takes place in Season 7; begins at the final scene of "All Things." MSR.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Happy 10/13, X-Files fans! A happy birthday to the mad genius behind the show, Chris Carter!_

 _Now this fanfiction is technically the first X-Files fanfiction I started. I was using it as a jumping off point to get an idea of how to write Mulder and Scully. In addition to that, I was using it as a sound board to put down all sorts of internal philosophical/moral debates I could see occurring between the two leads regarding all aspects of life. So it's sort of a story without a definite plot and it might seem a bit heavy-handed at times. I'm just letting the story map itself along as it comes to me._

 _There are numerous references to any and all episodes preceding Season 7's "All Things." And it's important to know that this story picks up at the final scene of "All Things." Otherwise, happy reading!_

* * *

"One wrong turn, and we wouldn't be sitting here together. Well, that says a lot. Says a lot, a lot, a lot. I mean, that's probably more than we should be getting into at this late hour."

Fox Mulder turned to his partner. She had nodded off, her head coming to rest near his shoulder. He leaned into her, deftly brushing a few loose strands of her titian hair behind her ear. He allowed his finger to trail along her jaw bone for a few short seconds before drawing his hand back. Rather than immediately recoiling, though, Mulder took a few moments for himself.

It was rare to see Dana Scully so candid and exposed. Even in those moments when she was open and conversing on a more private level, there was always a degree of wariness; she was always prepared to draw back into herself if she somehow felt threatened or ill at ease. And the partner he saw on an almost daily basis in the X-Files office was the analytic, detached Dr. Dana Scully, a meticulous and shrewd investigator always prepared to bandy theories back and forth with an eye to the evidence. The woman sleeping soundly beside him was not that professional colleague in that moment; she was a friend able to drowse without fear of judgment or harm and completely trusting in Mulder's presence—a partner in every sense of the term. Mulder took stock in her solace, finding it enheartening—a true exemplification of how deep their relationship ran after seven years of working together. Such moments were rare and precious, ones that ought to be taken note of and filed away deep in one's memory. After allowing the magnitude of the moment to wash over him watched, he reached across Scully for a nearby blanket. He pulled it across her, carefully ensuring that she was well-covered by the fabric lest she get cold. Once satisfied, Mulder watched her a few seconds longer; he hoped he hadn't woken her. Scully's breathing remained rhythmic—steady and slow—while her eyes stayed fastened shut.

Mulder took the opportunity to ease himself off the couch. As the cushions flexed and creaked at the shifting weight, Mulder checked Scully again.

 _Out like a light_ , he smirked to himself. He reached toward the coffee table in between them, picking up two forgotten cups of tea. Steam had long ceased to rise from them as he and Scully had gotten chattering.

First it was about the aftermath of his visit to Avebury, Wiltshire, England. The crop circles he had hoped to see never appeared. The algorithm meant to predict the location of new crop circles did very thorough analysis of previous examples of the phenomena and seemed sound on paper, but there had been no pay-off. While he had been tromping through the fields near Avebury, another team of crop circle enthusiasts scouted out the location given by the Washington D.C. research group based on Colleen Azar's collected data. Like at the Avebury site, ultimately there was no evidence of anything having occurred. Mulder could hardly rest on the entire flight back to D.C. given all the man-hours and effort that had been wasted on a fruitless search. He was uncomfortably familiar with dead-end leads, but that never made them any less disheartening. Tangible proof of extraterrestrial or otherworldly involvement was always just out of his reach.

Then again...in his absence, Scully had a potentially life-saving vision. Perhaps the X-File Mulder had sought had been back home all along. He chuckled to himself as he padded across the living room and into his kitchen. He poured the remaining tea from the two mugs down the drain and deposited the dishware in the sink. It could be cleaned up in the morning. He crossed his kitchen once more, flipped off the lights, checked that his front door was fastened and bolted tight, then returned to the living room. Scully sat where he had left her, snuggled up on the couch beneath the blanket, seemingly without a care in the world.

 _She deserves a good night's sleep_ , Mulder mused. _Especially with what she's been through._ Scully had told him of what she had been up to since they had last seen each other on Saturday morning. Numerous hospital visits, reuniting with Daniel Waterston after a ten-year hiatus, having a heart-to-heart with Colleen Azar, finding her way into a Buddhist temple where she was suddenly struck by an unearthly vision—a vision that might have actually saved Waterston's life.

Mulder always knew that Scully was stunned that he consider himself a "believer" when he was willing to believe in just about any notion other than the existence of a divine being and the validity of religious faiths. He could believe in aliens, mutants, and psychics, but never God! He and Scully had trod that path many times before; of the matters of faith, Scully was the believer while Mulder uncharacteristically morphed into the skeptic.

For Mulder, archaic texts, religious ceremonies, and canonical proclamations were nothing more than man's attempt to swindle and manipulate other men to follow a set of societal laws. Illusions of demons, angels, and all the like existed to assert a further means of control over the human race. While demons dissuaded an individual from acting in one manner, angels coaxed that person to follow a different path; religious ideals and beliefs kept people boxed in—conditioning them until they were unable to even consider extreme possibilities outside their pre-ordained spheres of reasoning and logic. Some would argue that people willingly sacrificed their potential to believe and live freely in favor of something even harder to obtain—hope. The "hope" offered by world religions was just as contrived as the concept of religious belief itself, though. "Hope" was a sham—a cleverly crafted device to blind people to the reality: religion was just a means to an end. With just a word or a sign, people could be corralled together under one banner and one belief. And what did the faithful of Christianity or Judaism or Islam equate to? An army. An army from which wars could be won, governments toppled from without or within, and plots brewed. Religious leaders were as bad as the shadowy men found lurking the halls of the Bureau headquarters. They were all men who professed peace and good will to the masses while the masses were just innocent pawns in a larger game—unaware of the truth. And Mulder sought to destroy anything that dare obscure or bury the truth.

But despite his own feelings on religious faiths, Mulder felt compelled to give Scully the benefit of the doubt in this case. He normally railed against her on matters of faith, imploring her to think rationally and logically—as she did the countless times he would blindly believe in some paranormal phenomenon. The incident with Waterston was unlike other encounters Scully had with her faith, though. Something had changed within her in Mulder's absence. She seemed steadier and more certain of her path in life. Mulder could only attribute that to the spiritual revelation she had undergone the day before. And he couldn't help but wonder what that meant for her future.

And it was precisely Scully's future that worried Mulder. At least since the diagnosis of his rare brain disease. The doctor he had initially visited gave him approximately a year to live, and Mulder was slowly but surely taking the necessary steps in preparation. He had most of his funeral plans arranged, the Mulder family gravestone had been updated to include his name, and he had amended his last living will and testament. Being the last of the Mulder line meant he had no one to naturally bequeath his possessions to, so he had signed off all his worldly items to Scully. Though Scully was unaware of that fact, just as she was unaware of his impending death. Mulder had purposefully decided to keep his diagnosis a secret. He did not want to be forced from his work on the X-Files; he did not want to be shuffled from hospital to hospital looking vainly for a non-existent cure, and most of all, he did not want Scully to cling by his bedside as he wasted away. So long as he had his strength, he would keep up pretenses. As Scully had said herself years earlier during her battle with cancer: he would not let this thing beat him.

But while his decision worked best for him in the long run, he was not sure how it would affect Scully in the long-term—hiding his illness as he was.

Taking one last look at Scully, Mulder turned off the lights to the living room and stepped into his bedroom. He swung the door closed, leaving about an inch gap between it and the door frame. While he desired his privacy, he didn't want it to appear as if he were shutting Scully out. Should she awake or something important occur to her, she was more than welcome to disturb him. But that door existed as a much-needed barrier between them, allowing him to toy with his thoughts-and the associated guilt-only exacerbated by her presence in his apartment. His decision to keep the truth from Scully could easily be seen as selfish and base, especially since he was such an advocate of the truth, and even more so because the foundation of their entire relationship rested upon their candor with one another.

Mulder flipped on the lamp on his bedside table and kicked his shoes off, nudging them under the bed. He pulled of his clothes, haphazardly tossing them into the nearby hamper. His favorite sleepwear slacks were still buried somewhere in his suitcase, so he quickly set about digging them out and pulling them on.

But was it so narcissistic of him to keep such a secret? He could either spend his last few months of life in joint agony or joy. Agony in convincing loved ones of the reality of his impending death and suffering along with them as they suffered, or joy in living life as he always had until the Grim Reaper finally came to claim him.

Granted, that meant Scully would be in for a rude awakening very soon. The doctors he had been visiting on a bi-monthly basis reported on his rapid decline in health. They informed him that in a few months' time, he would steadily lose mobile function and his cognitive abilities would shut down one by one as he degenerated into a vegetable. Life support would only keep him alive for so long. Eventually his body would completely give out, and that would be that. Mulder had assured that he would not live that long; in updating his will, he added a clause stating that once he degraded beyond a certain point, they would remove him from life support and allow him to die with dignity.

He smiled grimly to himself as he reflected on Scully's abduction five years earlier. She was returned to them in a coma and had added a similar clause to her will, requesting that life support be terminated should certain conditions be met. How the thought had nearly destroyed him so early in their partnership. He roughly pinched the bridge of his nose. Miraculously, she had come out of the coma, just as two years later, her cancer miraculously went into remission. But short of another miracle, there wouldn't be such a happy ending for him. And if Scully were anything like him in those times when she was on her deathbed, she would fight tooth and nail for him. She would refuse to accept defeat.

So the question came down to whether he should give Scully cause to fight now or wait until later? In any case, death was inevitable. So why burden her early on when the time could be better spent building good memories and enjoying the last of his days? After going back and forth on his decision so many times over the last months, he found himself returning to the same conclusion: he would bury the truth. It would be unearthed eventually, so there was no harm in delaying the occasion of that revelation.

A yawn escaped him, and he once again pinched the bridge of his nose. It had been a long few days, days only made longer when he was trapped by indecision. But after his cross-Atlantic trip, he needed his sleep. Saturday and Sunday alone included an eight hour flight from Dulles to Heathrow, followed by a taxi ride to the nearest car rental site, then a two hour drive to Avebury. To get around Avebury itself—a quaint rustic English town with a lot of ancient history—Mulder had to rely upon the kindness of his fellow paranormal enthusiasts. He was too unfamiliar with the countryside there, and it made him prone to getting lost. After his nonexistent findings on Monday, he immediately started on his return trek back to D.C., and found himself home by Tuesday afternoon. He hadn't spent enough time overseas to be that effected by jet-lag, but he did suffer from exhaustion because of extensive travelling, limited sleep, and his rampant insomnia.

Mulder stepped into his bathroom to use the toilet before finding himself in bedroom once more. Thoughts still buzzed noisily in his head, and he sought to ignore them. He walked over to his bed and collapsed on it, only taking a moment to flip off the lamp on the table next to him. He pulled at the disheveled sheet and blanket balled underneath him, trying to drape them over his torso and only half succeeding as a corner of blanket became dislodged and was able to land unceremoniously on his chest. He buried his head into his pillow, trying to drown out the clamorous thoughts, and was pleasantly surprised when they started to dissipate and blend into unconsciousness. Apparently his sheer exhaustion outmatched insomnia. He took a slow breath, sensing he would fall into a deep, comfortable sleep in a few minutes' time, plaguing thoughts be damned.

Until three soft knocks penetrated Mulder's near-unconsciousness. His eyes lazily opened and he rolled over to look at his bedroom door. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could just make out a shape or shadow in the tiny space between the door and the frame.

"Mulder?"

 _Scully_ , his mind noted unnecessarily. Mulder shifted his weight and moved to sit up, shoving his sheets idly aside.

"Scully, come in," he replied, throwing his feet over the edge of the bed so that he could sit upright. He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake away the sleep that had already settled there. The bedroom door swung open to reveal Scully in her green sweater, black skirt, and stocking-ed feet. He could easily make her out in the eerie glow of the street lamps filtering through the window blinds. Hardly a hair on her head was out of place; obviously she had slept very deeply and soundly if only briefly.

"Sorry to wake you, Mulder," Scully apologized quickly. Mulder noted she seemed a bit uncomfortable, perhaps embarrassed by her behavior. Or maybe she just found it awkward to be infiltrating his room as she was in the middle of the night.

"Nah, don't worry about it, Scully." Mulder shook his head dismissively and motioned for her to enter the room. "I'd only just gotten to bed." He stifled a yawn. "What's up?"

"I just wanted to tell you that I'm going to head back to my place. I didn't want you to wake up and find me mysteriously gone." Mulder smiled appreciatively, quickly conforming to his role of keeping up pretenses.

"God forbid!" He hoisted to himself to his feet dramatically. "I'd be calling in the search and rescue teams at first light." He grinned lightly, bringing forth a small chuckle from her.

"Thanks for letting me stay, Mulder," she said in earnest. "And I'm sorry about dozing off on your couch like that."

"Hey! Mi casa es su casa, Scully," Mulder waved off the apology. "Lord knows that you and I both could sleep for weeks in our current states."

"You can say that again," Scully nodded before stifling a yawn of her own. Mulder absently crossed his arms in front of him as he stared down at her for a moment. Scully returned his gaze with a quizzical expression of her own. "Yes?"

"Why not just stay here, Scully?" he said suddenly. She was tired, as they had both just attested to. And the last thing he needed was Scully ending up in the hospital due to some easily avoidable car accident. "I'm assuming you were comfortable enough on that couch," he added, pointing out to his living room. "I mean, I wouldn't be able to double as your pillow like before, but it sure beats driving home in the middle of the night."

"Mulder, it's hardly the middle of the night," Scully retorted with an uncharacteristic lack of pizzazz likely due to her sleepy state. She pushed back the sleeve to her jacket and checked her watch. "It's only twenty to midnight, and you know it'll only take me twenty minutes to get home."

"All the more reason to stay," Mulder asserted simply. "If you want to get up at the crack of dawn and toddle on home, fine by me, but right now I'd feel better that you stayed here as opposed to you falling asleep on your feet."

"Mulder..." Scully sighed indignantly. "I have some paperwork I have to get to in the morning, and—"

"Weren't you practically in a car accident on Saturday?" Mulder talked over her as she abruptly frowned in return. He refused to budge on the issue. Neither he nor Scully were conscious or alert enough to get behind the wheel between his multiple cross-Atlantic flights and her weekend fretting over Daniel Waterston and the direction of her life. Mulder clapped his hands on the sides of her petite frame and leaned in.

"Do this for me, Scully. I'd rather you get enough rest here than risk driving out there in your current state." Scully's mouth began to gape open.

"And what's the supposed to mean?"

"You're tired," he replied matter-of-factly. "So am I. So off to bed." He flicked his wrist at her as if to shoo her off. Scully's usually meticulous straight, stern posture slipped just a little bit as her eyes became more lidded. Mulder knew he had won the argument.

"I sometimes think you forget I'm not a dog, Mulder," Scully grumbled before letting out a sharp sigh. "But fine. I'll stay here. Just let me use the bathroom first." She turned to the door on her right, ambled in, and shut it quietly behind her.

Mulder turned around to look at his trussed up bed. He wanted nothing more than to sink into its comfortable depths and sleep for a week assuming his perpetually busy mind let him, but he felt a bit guilty insisting Scully spend the night against her fervent protests. They had both gone driving under less than ideal conditions in the past-usually because one or the other of them phoned in an emergency or there was a sudden break in a case. Despite the knowledge that she was aware of her personal limitations and obviously deemed herself fit enough to operate a motored vehicle, he felt better with her remaining at his apartment for the night. He couldn't rightly say why he felt that way. Perhaps because of the near car accident she'd had over the weekend. Maybe because of her more recent run-in with the late Donald Pfaster. The last thing either of them needed was for Scully to get home and be taken hostage in the middle of the night, and unfortunately, that kind of event seemed to happen more often than not for her. So altogether, Mulder felt much more comfortable with her staying the night.

The arrangement wasn't entirely foreign to them; Scully had stayed with him at Mulder's insistence following Pfaster's assault on her. After an ordeal like that, he hadn't wanted her to spend the night alone in some nearby motel. As per usual for Scully, she maintained she was fine-just a little shook up, but Mulder wasn't having it. He had seen how Pfaster shook her to the core during his first attempt on her life five years previous. While she had prevailed over him during his second attempt, it was no less horrific. And Mulder wasn't going to let her deal with the shock of the event and its aftermath alone.

As memories of Pfaster's attack resurfaced, another night came to the forefront of Mulder's mind: when Scully had stayed with him following the unexpected death of his mother. Granted, he had been a bit of a mess on that occasion, and Scully was serving as a sort of caretaker to watch over him and comfort him in his loss. He remembered breaking down at the news that his mother had committed suicide. Or maybe it was just him finally breaking down at the acute realization of her death. He had never been all that close to his mother as tight-lipped and distant as she was, but he had loved the woman dearly. And Scully had stayed with him that night just cradling his head on her lap as they sat on the couch. She would run her fingers through his hair as he sobbed quietly, eventually falling into an uneasy sleep.

And to think that his mother had killed herself to escape an incurable disease. Mulder couldn't help but chuckle at the twisted irony of it.

He glanced at the closed door of his bathroom before his eyes wandered once more to his bed. His mind was made up. He'd offer her his bed for the night. The single thin sheet and heavy blanket being twisted and strewn every which way didn't give off the best ascetic appearance. Nor did his distorted, flattened pillows that had been punched into every conceivable shape over years of use. Mulder wasn't sure if he had a set of fresh sheets to spare in a closet in his chest of drawers. He hoped Scully wouldn't be too put off by the sight. In a meager attempt to make things a bit more presentable, he lugged the blanket off his bed, snapped the sheet to lay it out flat, and reapplied the blanket in like fashion. He stared at his work; it wasn't much of an improvement, but it was something. The bed didn't look _quite_ as mussed up as before.

There was nothing more to be done about it, though. With an inconsequential shrug, he meandered into the living room and took a long look at his worn leather couch. _Hey there, old friend_ , he thought as he snatched up a few of the pillows, tossed them to the opposite side of the couch, picked up the blanket, and plopped himself down on the sofa. He threw the blanket over him before locking his fingers together behind his head. The noise of a flushing toilet sounded from the bathroom as he stared at his bedroom doorway expectantly. Next came the sound of a faucet being turned on, then off, and the rattle of the well-worn doorknob as it turned. A few seconds passed and Scully stepped into the living room, her sharp eyes scanning the small, dark space. Her perplexed gaze rapidly landed on Mulder. He grinned lazily up at her.

"What are you doing, Mulder?"

"Sleeping on the couch," he replied nonchalantly, the grin never fading. "I thought you ought to have the bed. It allows for better beauty sleep, I hear." Trying to cover a laugh at his bizarre display of chivalry, Scully shook her hand and crossed her arms.

"I'm not kicking you out of your bed, Mulder."

"Don't forget that this thing used to be my bed, Scully," Mulder replied smoothly. "At least before that entire bedroom set appeared in there overnight." He glanced at the adjoining wall to the bedroom suspiciously.

He had never figured out how his bedroom had actually transformed into a bedroom. While his apartment was listed as having one bedroom and one bathroom, he had always just used the space as a makeshift storage room. A place for stacks and stacks of unfiled X-Files, a healthy amount of his triple-X collection, possible clippings and information related to Samantha's disappearance, and other odds and ends. He'd left just barely enough room to slip through the door so that he could squeeze into the bathroom. Otherwise, his living room which doubled as an office had also tripled as a bedroom. Then one night he got home from an outing with Scully only to find his walk-in storage closet clear of all junk and mess with a fully furnished bedroom in its place. Mulder's gaze wandered from the wall and returned to his partner standing at the foot of the couch.

"I always thought you had a hand in that...uh, transformation," Mulder admitted, meeting Scully's blue eyes with his own. Her blank countenance broke into a smile as she laughed.

"I'd know better than to give you a waterbed with leopard print sheets and a mirrored ceiling. I always wondered if it was Frohike."

"Frohike?" Mulder replied incredulously with a laugh of his own. He unlaced his hands from behind his head and crossed his arms. "Nah! I mean...yeah, he's an odd guy," he nodded lightly, "but I think his tastes are a little better than that." Scully shrugged, indicating she had no other possible answer to give.

"But I'll tell you, Scully," Mulder continued. "My first few nights in that bed scared the hell out of me. You ever wake up from a nightmare in a cold sweat, open your eyes, only to see someone looming over you? I about emptied my clip into that mirror a few times. I got used to it, of course, but once the waterbed gave out, I was done with all the crap. I packed it all up and sold it." Even in the dark living room, he could see Scully trying to hide a smile. "Go ahead! Laugh," he encouraged her, sitting up on the couch as he got more animated. "Point is: you should be thankful that what you'll be sleeping in tonight is a normal bed with normal sheets and no damned hanging mirror." Scully ducked her head and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Oh God, Mulder. Only you would be able to magic up a bed set out of thin air with no recollection of where it came from." She shook her head at the absurdity of the conversation. Mulder had an inkling of where her stream of thought was taking her. He tossed the blanket off him and stood up, smiling and pointing at Scully.

"I promise you, Scully. I wasn't drunk." She opened her mouth to ask a question, but he beat her to the answer. "Nor was I under the effect of any hallucinogenic drug or gaseous substance or anything of the sort. I didn't suffer any black outs either." He marched right up to her and peered down into her face. "In fact, I'd been with you that night. We'd gone to Nevada—near Area 51." Scully's eyes narrowed and her whole face tightened as she tried to recollect the night.

"Oh, yeah," she nodded in acknowledgement. "We were going down the highway when that bunch of dark sedans came out of nowhere and boxed us in."

"Yes!" Mulder about shouted in victory. "The men in black! They told us to pack up and take off."

"Which we did," Scully slowly added as the pieces of the memory fell into place for her.

"Yeah," Mulder agreed. "I had a contact in Area 51. He said he was going to show me something—more proof as to the existence of extraterrestrials, I'm guessing. When the suits showed up, I figured he'd been found out. I thought it was safer that we got out of there."

"That's right," Scully grinned. "And somehow Kersh overlooked our little detour." She stared off into space for a moment as she reminisced before returning to Mulder. "But you're saying that's the night that the bedroom appeared?" She pointed to the room next door.

"Yep," Mulder nodded. "So unless we got caught up in some kind of Area 51 time warp, I can't explain how that bedroom exists." Scully's countenance took on its typical stern expression.

"I don't know, Mulder. Think it's worthy of an X-File?" Her eyes glinted playfully at him through the darkness. He grinned in response, albeit tiredly; his fatigue was catching up with him again.

"I think," he slowly replied, "we should both get some sleep before we end up passed out on the floor and entangled in some kind of compromising position. Last thing we need to do is give the Bureau probable cause to cut short our careers."

"Wouldn't that make your day, though, Mulder?" she smiled cheekily. "You could finally say you slept with your partner." Mulder feigned hurt and struck a hand to his chest.

"Ooh, Scully. Don't tease a man like that."

"Maybe it _would_ be safer for me to sleep on the couch then," Scully replied with a laugh. Mulder spread his arms wide with a glance about the apartment.

"Whichever place you want. Whatever's most comfortable for you." He _was_ getting tired. While he loved to banter with and incessantly tease Scully, he was much more prodigious at it when not sleep deprived. "What's your choice?" Scully's light-hearted demeanor faded minutely.

"I've already come to a choice, huh?" she asked, though Mulder sensed it was a rhetorical question. He watched her face sharpen into a more serious expression as she became lost in her own thoughts.

"If you're struggling with an answer to that question, I'm a bit nervous to see how you'd respond to 'soup or salad?'" The joke was dry and perhaps a bit inconsiderate, but he wanted to add a bit of levity to the sudden no-nonsense mood that had enveloped the room. It succeeded in breaking Scully from her thoughts at the very least.

"What's that?" she asked, turning to Mulder.

"Uh...nothing," he smiled weakly. "What is it, Scully?"

"You know how I told you my theory about choices?" she asked as Mulder folded his arms in front of him. "That maybe we go through life on our designated path, and of all the choices we face in life, only one set is incontrovertibly 'right.'" Scully was now very much awake and wanted to talk about a serious matter; he had to remain alert enough to engage in the conversation with her. He curtly nodded. "Well..." she paused for a moment as she selected her next words, "I _do_ believe going with Daniel would have been a wrong choice—either ten years ago or today."

Scully's nostrils flared a bit, and Mulder quickly glanced at her eyes. He thought he could sense an oncoming wave of tears. To be frank, he had been surprised she hadn't cried earlier. Perhaps her senses had been too much in shock and dull at the time. Since some hours had passed, though, Scully's dam of clinical, professional, and rational cool-headedness was beginning to leak. He had seen her reach this breaking point before and mentally prepared himself for the onset.

"I told him that maybe I wanted the life that I didn't choose. At the time, I'd been referring to my potential life with him, of course." She hugged her arms to herself protectively, and Mulder noticed the beginnings of tears in her eyes. "A life away from the Bureau," she continued. "Maybe as a medical doctor somewhere with a house in the suburbs, and...I don't know. Maybe a dog." She smiled tightly at Mulder, a tear slipping down her cheek. He slowly dropped his arms to his sides, realizing that his previous cross-armed stance could be read as more aggressive than he intended. He wanted to appear open and non-judgmental regarding her thoughts.

"I feel now, though, that _that_ life wouldn't have made me happy. I couldn't have been with Daniel, no matter how much I once loved him. But..." her breath caught in her throat as she fumbled to finish her sentence. "But can I even be sure I'm currently on the right path?" She looked at Mulder imploringly; she wanted an honest answer from him. For a moment, he didn't know what answer he could possibly give. He watched scant tears flow down her cheeks. She wasn't hysterical or broken; she was uncertain—and most of all, she was afraid.

While she had undergone a certain spiritual transformation or rediscovery upon receiving her vision the previous day, she wasn't sure how much she could trust in her newfound beliefs. Did life only amount to a bizarre children's game—a sort of treasure hunt where one followed clues in hopes of finally discovering the elusive X that marked the spot: a chance at happiness? And if one was steered wrong, was there ever the chance of getting back on track or was it game over? If one ultimately came to the wrong conclusion—and the wrong end—there certainly wouldn't be a consolation prize. So was the only option was to keep plowing on, searching for clues, and praying the right ones were found? _Life is nothing if not complicated_ , Mulder mused to himself. He searched Scully's eyes before finally settling on his honest answer.

"I-" he licked his lips, "I can't tell you that, Dana." All hint of levity and lightheartedness were absent from his tone now that the time for witticisms and banter had passed. His voice was soft and somber, the tone he reserved for his heart-to-hearts with Scully. "Only you can know if you're where you really want to be in life."

Mulder wasn't exactly pleased with his answer; it sounded like the sort of drivel read off a holiday Hallmark card, and it was anything but comforting. The sincerity behind his words was real, though; he didn't want her thinking that he was brushing her off or not taking her seriously. He imagined that had happened far too often in her life, and their relationship was based so strongly on the mutual respect and trust they had for one another. The larger scope behind the question she asked wasn't one he could just spout off an answer to, though. It required serious thought and time to fully consider. Time that Mulder didn't have right then. He silently posed a variation of the question to himself: did life consist of someone blindly walking through life on rails or was it a serious of crossroads where one needed to choose which fork to turn down? The gears in his mind spun wildly as he attempted to recount the myriad of philosophies and theories he had read about over the years. He locked eyes with her, and his gaze sharpened as thoughts began to click together into a bigger picture.

"I wonder—and this might just be me talking out of my ass, but—I wonder if life is a sort of amalgamation of pre-destined, pre-determined decisions and the choices we make through life. A combination of the fate or free will argument." He paused for a second as he tried to figure out how to put his next few thoughts into words. Scully looked at him curiously as she attempted to wipe away the few falling tears. Mulder took that as an opportunity to earn a few more seconds to map out his attempt at logic; he squeezed by her and into the bathroom to grab a tissue box. As he returned to his previous position, he offered her a tissue and set the box on the arm of the couch—easily in reach should she need more. She offered a small, grateful smile and dabbed at her eyes. He quickly tried to recollect his train of thought.

"As I was saying—an alternative theory on fate versus free will. Uh...take, for instance, your life. You were the daughter of a Navy Captain and a housewife. You were born to a household of four children, and you were raised Catholic." Mulder ticked off each statement on his hand. "Those are facets of your life that were completely out of your control. You can't change who you were born to or the circumstances to which you were born. Yet those circumstances shape you. A-at least up until a point." Mulder could sense his theory coming together in his head, and the rapidity of his speech was increasing as he became more invested in his thoughts. "Your childhood—the thoughts and values instilled in you by your parents and your life experiences as a child—made you into a type of person, and that made you more prone to making certain choices in life. Ultimately, that choice is yours, though." He paused, sensing that his theory wasn't coming out exactly as he wanted it to. It wasn't grounded enough in reality and needed a concrete example to give it substance.

"So..." Scully cut into the silence, "you mean to say that my parents and childhood create my initial persona, and I make life choices based on that?" Despite her tearstain covered cheeks, she adopted her carefully detached, analytical tone, the one she used for when she was trying to rationalize his thoughts.

"Yes," Mulder nodded, "but there's more to it, Scully." He paused again before plowing on. "Perhaps your father's naval background coupled with having grown up with numerous siblings nurtured certain qualities in you: loyalty, camaraderie, level-headedness. Those qualities, in turn, made you naturally more inclined to join a career based on the concept of community—where people came together and worked toward a common cause while openly relying on one another for guidance and assistance. We're talking about the fate component of the fate versus free will argument. You were fated to be loyal and level-headed because of the circumstances of your childhood. Now the free will comes into play with the choice you are given: what you want to do—what career you want to go into, in this case—with those values in mind. And ultimately, you chose the medical field." Scully nodded; Mulder couldn't be sure if she was just indicating that she understood his newfound theory or if she agreed with him. Before she had the chance to speak, though, he continued again.

"And that pattern repeats indefinitely throughout a person's life: a segment is pre-disposed and out of our control—perhaps because so many lives exist in sequence and in correlation with one another—and then we are met with a choice based on that pre-disposed segment." He stopped in his open-ended theorizing to look at Scully, to ensure she was still with him. The tears had since stopped, though he noticed she was holding a couple of tissues in her hand. She seemed to be considering his proposition; her eyes were darting back and forth as she mused on his words, perhaps trying to attribute them to her own life.

"Like how I ran across Daniel?" she mused aloud, seemingly uncertain if she was understanding Mulder's theory correctly. Mulder said nothing, waiting for her to continue. She noticed his inquiring gaze. "I'd gone to the hospital to pick up the Szczesny autopsy results. The nurse gave me Daniel's X-rays instead."

"Something out of your control," Mulder nodded encouragingly.

"And I learned it was Daniel," she continued slowly.

"And what did you do with that information?"

"I visited him," she said simply.

"When you could have chosen not to." Mulder found himself nodding a bit more vigorously. "That's exactly it, Scully. Life isn't so black and white as we might think. It's a combination of what lies within our control and what doesn't." Mulder felt a smile creep into place. Scully raised her brows at him curiously.

"So when you look at it in terms of the bigger picture-from where you are right now in your life-seven years ago you got through your training at Quantico, and you were given your first assignment. The powers that be—or in this case, former Division Chief Blevins—declared you should make your way down to the sequestered basement to join a crackpot psychologist in a dead-end division of the Bureau." His wily smile broke into a grin. "Now as much as you deny it, Scully, I know you weren't happy be down there at first." Scully cocked her head and considered Mulder's words.

"No..." she thoughtfully responded. "It was my first assignment, Mulder. I didn't have any comparative Bureau experiences to draw on, so I didn't really have right to be either pleased or displeased. I was going into it fresh-faced. I mean..." she paused for a moment to collect her thoughts, "I knew of your reputation as a brilliant man who had a promising career ahead of him thanks to his uncanny skills at criminal profiling but suddenly fell off the wagon and into obscurity..."

"Is that _all_ they say?" Mulder teased. Scully rolled her eyes.

"The point is, Mulder: I was intrigued by you. I was wondering what a man with your story could possibly be like."

"So did I exceed your expectations?" Scully smiled coyly.

"You didn't disappoint. I probably wouldn't have stuck around seven years if you had." Mulder grinned, suddenly pointing at her.

"And that's the point, Scully! You chose to stay. And you had plenty of opportunities to leave. Since you were assigned to be my handler more or less, you could have easily stuck to the short-term agenda and waited for them to cart me off and shut down the X-Files. You probably would have been in line for a nice promotion right off the bat and a cushy position in the Bureau." Scully frowned.

"That's not how I operate, Mulder," she returned. "I never wanted to be part of their agenda. I came on to work."

"And that's where you tripped them up," he asserted. "They didn't anticipate that you would be open to my unconventional practices. They expected you to see me as some maniac let loose in the Bureau-a liability that should quickly be eradicated."

"Because if it looks bad, it's bad for the FBI," Scully replied smartly. Mulder had always been impressed by her sardonic wit. His eyes brightened in amusement.

"And you proved them wrong, Scully," he commended her. "And me, too, for that matter." His complimentary tone diminished into a more somber one as his statement came to a close. "You've stuck it out on basement detail. And for some reason or another, you've stuck by me."

Truth be told, Mulder had never fully understood why Scully stayed on at the X-Files or as his partner. Mulder wanted nothing more than to find the truth—whatever that truth may be. Over the course of his near seven years with Scully, they had uncovered innumerable truths regarding the existence of extraterrestrial biological entities, government experiments and conspiracies affecting the general populace, and other strange phenomena. Mulder had even finally determined what happened to his long-absent sister Samantha; she had already been dead for approximately twenty years. Yet with that chapter of his life finally closed—the driving force behind Mulder's ever-constant quest to discover the truth, he still found more truths that had to be unearthed. Scully, meanwhile, had some investment in their search—mainly to determine the reason for her abduction five years earlier and the ongoing repercussions she had to face due to said abduction. Those questions had been answered for the most part though, so what else could be tying her to the X-Files? A sense of loyalty? Obligation? Perhaps that were true now—seven years down the line, but why had she stayed at the very beginning of her assignment? There had been opportunities for her to leave very early on, but she never took them. Mulder never understood why, especially since everyone else at the Bureau had always abandoned him to his mad fantasies of little green men zipping around in their spaceships.

"Mulder..." Scully's voice brought him back to the present. Suddenly focusing on her, he looked at her expectantly. She knew he had been lost in thought. He could see as much in her eyes. There was a slight tug at his hand. Somehow she had grabbed it without him noticing. He gave her a slight squeeze of acknowledgment and slipped it from her grip. His eyes returned to hers. They were less fearful; more comforted. Good. That's what he had intended in expounding upon his rapidly conceived theory. There was no point in worrying about the future because the best one could do was look back upon life experiences and character values to make the best possible choice in the moment—and because it was the best choice in the moment, it was the quintessential "right" choice in one's life.

Yet Mulder was suddenly perturbed. Not about any choices he had made in life; he was well aware that he had chosen a life devoted to the truth. And unexpectedly on his journey, he had found lifelong ally in Scully. She always stood by him despite the apparent risks and the heartrending losses she had suffered. It was unfair to her-to have her constantly and consistently in harm's way, and he was always terrified of losing her—whether to reassignment, abduction, or death. He realized that to stay with him was to have a death wish—and the implications of that thought had gradually disturbed him more and more as the years went on.

His death was imminent. She would soon be free of him and his ridiculous ambitions, but would that be enough to save her from dying because of him while on some foolhardy errand?

 _I just spent minutes asserting that Scully had made the "right" choice in life to join the X-Files, and here it was possibly the worst choice she could have made._ Mulder found himself maddened by his inherently selfish motivations. Of course Scully's assignment to the X-Files as his partner was the right choice-for him. He gained a comrade in arms, a friend, an equal. She only lost family, credibility, and the prospect of a normal life. And she was soon going to lose him, as well. Another casualty to the truth.

If he was ever to make it right for her—to save her once and for all—he had to drive her away. Force her to forget him, and maybe then she'd be able to get back on the right track: to a long, fulfilling life with a family while free of the pressures of unearthed government conspiracies and secret truths.

"Why help me, Scully?" he suddenly asked. "Why willingly help me for all these years?" His tone wasn't cynical or sarcastic, but it was insistent. As with everything else, he wanted the truth from her.

"You're my partner, Mulder," she replied simply, looking a bit uncertain. Soiled facial tissues were crumpled up in her hand. She stepped around him and to his desk, tossing them into the near-overflowing waste basket, then turned back to face him.

"There's more to it than that," he probed, standing still as stone. Scully stared up at the ceiling for a moment; Mulder supposed she was searching for an answer. He had to find a way to refute that answer.

"You showed me a world outside conventional wisdom, rationality, and science," Scully eventually said. "Things I once thought of as only fantasies and myths—or as products of science fiction..." she paused as she chose her words, "you've shown them to be real. I suppose I want to uncover the truth as much as you do." She leaned up against Mulder's desk and crossed her arms.

"That might be true now, Scully," Mulder replied unwaveringly. "But what about when you first started. Why did you stick around? I remember your buddy from the VCS who brought you into the Tooms case—" he was surprised he struggled to remember the man's name.

"Tom Colton," Scully offered.

"Yes," Mulder nodded. "He offered you a way out. He said he'd pull you out of the basement, and you turned him down flat. I even told you that I wouldn't hold it against you if you kept on with the VCS."

"Well, I seem to remember him being a right bastard at the time," Scully replied coolly. "He was so caught up in boosting his own reputation and career that he didn't want to take into account evidence you brought forth concerning the case. To be frank, Mulder, he didn't like you even before he met you, and didn't take any of our work seriously." She met his gaze calmly from across the room. "Because he didn't take you seriously, he didn't take me seriously by extension. And I didn't need to work with anyone who couldn't respect me or my partner."

"We were hardly even partners at the time, Scully," Mulder retorted. "It was our third case together."

"We still had established a certain level of trust and respect between one another. Or have you forgotten that on our second case together I negotiated for your safe return at that air force base in Idaho after you had been captured and had your memory wiped?"

"I've not forgotten your rescue, at the very least," Mulder frowned. Scully narrowed her eyes at him.

"Why are you trying so hard to discredit our partnership, Mulder?" Mulder rubbed his face with his hands and let out a groan. After seven years together, she would not let go easily. It was to be expected, but it was frustrating.

"I am not trying to do that," he finally replied. He looked back up at her. "I'm trying to understand why you stuck around all these years when you could have _and_ should have run away dozens of times."

"Explain," Scully requested simply. Mulder sighed and settled into pacing about the room. Scully remained perched on the desk with her arms crossed, calmly regarding him.

"During the Tooms case, Colton called off the surveillance on his apartment. Because of that you were attacked in your own apartment. You were almost killed." He stopped in his pacing and looked at Scully as the last word sounded in the air. "After that kind of visceral attack, you had every reason you could ever want to walk away from the X-Files. Only you didn't."

"Mulder, you know as well as I that we're trained at Quantico to specifically prepare for such situations. You don't enter the Bureau—or any other type of law enforcement agency, for that matter—without the foreknowledge that one day you could just wind up dead." In his anxiousness, Mulder visibly winced at her detached tone. "I'm sorry, Mulder, but this isn't something I can sugarcoat. Our profession is known to be a dangerous one." Mulder continued his movement about the room. Meanwhile, Scully abandoned her position at the desk, stepped closer to Mulder, and lightly grabbed his wrist. He immediately stopped in his pacing and looked down at her. "I am thankful every day that you and I have survived everything that we have, Mulder. You honestly don't know how much it would kill me if you were to die." While he forced his features to remain composed, Mulder felt himself internally collapse. Scully was too attached; she would refuse to let him go. He practically laughed at the morbid irony: whether he lived or died, she would still remain a casualty in his quest, and by her own initiative no less! He sensed her nimble, thin fingers wrapped around his wrist, but he could hardly feel them for the thoughts pounding in his head. She released him. "I know I won't ever be able to convince you to stop. You'll always be searching for a new answer. That's who you are. So I have no other choice but to let you run headlong into danger, Mulder. You've done it for seven years now, and you'll keep doing it. I'm not going to try and change you into something you aren't. And I'm certainly not going to try and shield you from every threat we encounter on the field. I'd hoped you held me in the same respect."

"I do, Scully," he answered numbly.

"Then why are you recommending that I abandon the X-Files?" Mulder sighed again, then glanced back up into her blue eyes—eyes that flashed in earnest. He had to give her some sense of the truth. Maybe if she saw it from his perspective-that her life wasn't worth the risk-maybe then she'd hear him out.

"Because I've suddenly found the will to put into words something that's disturbed me for a long time. It was something your brother said to me a couple years back, actually."

"Bill?" Scully asked, searching Mulder's eyes. "What did he say?" Mulder took a moment to breathe in and out-a deep, steadying breath.

"That I'm to blame." He made sure he held her gaze if only to prove to her the validity of his words. "You've lost your father, your sister, Emily. You've been abducted and assaulted more times than I can count: Tooms, Duane Barry, Pfaster, Padgett, the lot of them. You've suffered from inhumane treatment because of your status as an abductee; the chip in your neck, your cancer, your infertility." Mulder tone deadened and hardened as he spoke, a rare glimpse at the self-hatred he possessed. "And what have all your sacrifices been for? I found my sister—dead for almost 20 years now. But was my finding Samantha really worth everything that it's cost you?" Mulder's mused with cynical irony that while he had put his all in his quest for the truth—ultimately with the goal to help the general populace—he had subsequently ruined the lives of so many others. He chuckled darkly to himself.

"Mulder." Scully's voice penetrated through the cacophony of internal anguish and frustration that possessed him. He had destroyed so many lives; he was determined to not drag Scully down with him. Usually he worked so hard to conceal the sense of guilt and failure he frequently felt in his pursuit of the truth. Of course it would be Scully to bring it all out of him instead. He offered a twisted smile.

"Don't say that I'm not at fault, Scully," he interjected before she could say anything more. "I know I am. I've known I was to blame ever since Duane Barry took you, and I never did anything about it. That shows you the kind of person I am at heart." Scully simply shook her head at him.

"Mulder," she began slowly. "A number of minutes ago, you just gave me your theory on what the path of life consisted of. You said life consists of pre-determined, uncontrollable segments and the choices we make in correlation to them. In each of those situations, I made a conscious choice. Ultimately, I decided to invest myself into the X-Files and our partnership, and you cannot blame yourself for _my_ decisions in hindsight." Mulder shook his head somberly. He had guessed Scully would attempt to assuage his guilt and pass some of the blame to herself, but he couldn't let her continue to be a martyr to his cause. He wouldn't accept it.

"Mulder," Scully pressed again. "You've already asserted that life is not a vacuum in which one person's choices affect the course of the whole world. Everyday life is made up of billions of choices made by billions of people in tandem. Therefore it doesn't make any logical sense for you to take the blame for all the ills that have befallen me over the last seven years." She paused for a brief moment.

"I would never blame you, Mulder. Not after everything we've been through together."

"But this can't be your life forever, Scully," he quietly retorted. "I've made my choice. I'm in this for the long-haul, but I can't force that on you." Mulder just wanted her to let go—to begin the process of moving past the X-Files and himself. He couldn't bring himself to tell her the absolute truth, though; that would be counter-intuitive. He had to free her, not give her reason to cling all the tighter as he lay on his deathbed.

"Since when are you forcing it on me?" she countered.

"The sacrifices you've made..."

"You've made sacrifices, too," she interjected, refusing to back down. She sighed before looking him sternly in the eyes. "Yes, I've suffered losses, Mulder, but so have you. If we've come this far, and you mean to continue, why would I stop?" The vehemence in her tone struck Mulder as soundly as if she had slapped him. He smirked.

"You and me against the world, Scully?" he said deadpan.

"That's the way I've come to expect it, Mulder," Scully replied, her tone equally devoid of emotion. They stared at one another, each unwilling to budge from their position.

"Then answer me this, Scully," Mulder demanded stonily, not once allowing his gaze to waver from hers. "Why? Not an hour ago you were questioning the direction of your life. Now you seem suddenly comfortable with it. So what changed?"

"I could ask the same thing of you, Mulder," she returned. "First you tell me that I'm where I belong in life due to my decision to remain with the X-Files. And now you ask me why I haven't left."

"And that's something you haven't answered yet," he seethed.

"Damn it, Mulder!" she shot back. "It's because of you!" Mulder started. That wasn't the answer he had expected, but Scully was just beginning, her fiery temper having been lit. "I've told you that you have a blinding passion. At times it's overwhelming, and in my case, it's infectious. You push me, Mulder. Further than I could ever dream to push myself. You drive me to the boundaries of conceivable reality and ask me to look beyond it for something thought to be surreal and mythical. And more often than not, it's there. While you've never found the truth you've always sought, you've shown me hundreds of new truths. And that's not something I can just walk away from. After all these years, you've made me want to believe, Mulder, and I _try_ to believe." She finally broke eye contact from him, and looked off in the distance, sighing and taking a few calming breaths. Mulder just found himself struck dumb. Scully was rarely ever this candid. She looked back at him again, breathing more evenly than before. "So, no," she continued in a plain speaking voice, "I won't leave."

Mulder swallowed, seeking his voice.

"Even if I were to ask you to?" he asked quietly. Breathing steadily, she watched him out of the corner of her eye, contemplating his question. Finally, she shook her head.

"No," she said again. "You've tried that once before." She smiled lightly, almost as if remembering an inside-joke. "And where did we end up?" Mulder chuckled.

"Not too far gone from where we began," he admitted. "Due to your stubbornness, I might add."

"I'm only as stubborn as I have to be," she replied easily, meeting Mulder's gaze.

"See?" he joked. "I told you all those years ago that I'm a pain in the ass to work with." Scully sighed.

"But for all your trouble, you're somehow worth the effort, Mulder." Scully rubbed at his arm affectionately, the time for sharp words having passed. She looked up at him with an encouraging smile.

Mulder met her comforting gaze and couldn't help but smile in return. His inherent guilt still lingered, as did his fear for her future and the plaguing questions of what he was to do over the next few months. None of those things were bound to go away, but whenever he got too worked up, Scully and her ever-ready rationalizations stepped in to taper his fervor. It was for that very reason that Scully so often maddened him—with her rigorous scientific practices and constant search for concrete evidence to back up his off-the-wall theories. But her approach had merit. Not only could she employ her well-honed skills on X-Files cases, but during times of personal crisis. Scully had done what she always did: grounded him. He was the sort to wear his heart on his sleeve and allow his emotions to compromise him whereas Scully frequently kept her heart locked away to keep it from harm. In such moments when she drew him back to earth, she was attempting to protect him in turn. And she had no idea of how much Mulder thoroughly appreciated that fact.

"Thanks, Scully," Mulder muttered quietly as he looked into her blue eyes. They were cool and calming, and that was an intense comfort to Mulder as he found himself battling with personal demons and long-held regrets. He slid his hand into hers and gave it a squeeze.

"I suppose I owe you thanks, too, Mulder," Scully replied. She smiled lightly, but confidently. He didn't need to ask her what she meant; there were always small things between them that they owed to the words or actions of the other. It was yet another facet of their complex relationship.

Despite the steady return to their characteristic roles as partners following their tumultuous argument, Mulder sensed a rawness still remaining—a vulnerability. He wondered if Scully felt the same sense of exposure. They had both bared themselves to one another in a manner not done before. Scully had revealed her deeply-inset insecurities while Mulder had shown his ever-gnawing guilt. Such revelations could never be unseen by either partner, and it only deepened the bond between them as they each had suddenly learned more about their partner's inner workings and struggles.

Mulder wanted nothing more than to give his battered conscious time to heal, as he normally did at such times. He was used to the occasional bouts of agonizing guilt, and he was getting more accustomed to thoughts of his rapidly approaching demise. He'd feel the intense repercussions of the choices he had made in life and the losses he had suffered because of them. He'd be haunted by the seeming futility of his quest as each step forward led to more questions and more bloodshed. On those nights, he'd typically sit in the darkness of his living room and let the thoughts play out. Sometimes he'd flick on the TV and let its monotone drone filter over to him. Sometimes he'd find himself unconsciously crying. When the initial barrage had passed, he would begin to build up the mental walls again and lock away his ever-clawing guilt. The experience always left him raw and hollow, though, and he needed something frivolous and effortless to pass away the hours—something that dulled the pain until he could once again be completely numb to it. Most men turned to the bottom of a bottle; Mulder didn't drink often, though, and he had a low tolerance to alcohol. He would turn to his extensive pornography collection. The collection existed less as a lecherous, testosterone-fueled hobby and more as a coping mechanism for dark times. But he was perfectly fine with the presumption that he just had an affinity for the stuff; it was easier to explain and fit much better with his happy-go-lucky, boyish persona.

There was a small tug at his arm, and it sharply pulled him from his reflections. He was still holding hands with Scully. She was slowly trying to slip her hand from his, but he welcomed the touch. Even while lost in troublesome thoughts, it kept him locked in the present. Mulder tightened his grip on Scully's fingers, unwilling to let her go. His mouth fell slack and he watched her as she looked at their clasped hands. Her blue eyes rounded upwards to meet his in an inquiring glance. Her lips parted as if to silently mouth a wordless question. She didn't move to pull her hand from his again, but Mulder could read the confusion and curiosity in her eyes. He, too, was confused at his actions in some recess of his mind, but he found himself compelled to act and thought it easier to give into the compulsion.

Almost as of on its own accord, Mulder's free hand slowly raised and placed itself on the nape of Scully's neck. His thumb rested just above the curve of her jawbone as threads of her hair tickled the back of his fingers. He watched as recognition dawned on her, but she didn't actively try to pull away. She just remained still and continued to meet his gaze. He lightly ran his thumb along the flesh beneath her earlobe, and heard a hiss of breath. That was Mulder's breaking point.

He released Scully's hand to capture the other side of her face and leaned in. Scully's hand flew to where his shoulder met the base of his neck; he was surprised to feel some pressure applied there as she sought to pull him down to her. She, in turn, leaned in as well.

It was slow progress meeting Scully as Mulder felt himself drawn in though simultaneously questioning his sanity. Two halves of the same mind were at war with one another, and one side slowly winning out. Getting so close to Scully was the last thing he should do given the unavoidable future. Reasoning told him it was the wrong choice to make, but he didn't care in that moment. Because it had been so long since he'd been with a woman. Because he and Scully had both sacrificed so much and ultimately deserved some compensation. Because she had taught him that there was more to life than the truth, and because she was the only person he trusted unconditionally.

Finally, he felt the tickle of her breath on his lips, and he hastily closed the gap, catching her mouth with his. She moved deftly beneath him and in complement to him, returning his affection with her own zeal. Mulder felt her nails dig into his shoulder, but the minute pain wasn't a bother; it was real and sharp and only added to the intensity. His hands slipped from her neck and slid down to her skirt. Predicting his maneuver, Scully wrapped one hand around the base of his neck and the other up into his hair, pulling herself nearer to him as he hoisted her off the floor. She locked her legs around his waist and tugged at his hair as she kneaded her fingers into it. Mulder was surprised by how much he enjoyed the sensation; he would have suspected the action would annoy him more than anything, but then again, he was plenty occupied with the feeling of Scully crushed against him, and she kept making as if to pull him closer.

Mulder's mind was practically swimming in the release the situation offered him. Holding her tightly, he spun around and made his way to the bedroom. At the sensation of movement, Scully somehow furthered her grip around Mulder's neck, though he was sure she trusted him not to drop her. As he crossed the threshold, he was met with the choice of what to do next. Collapse on the bed in a fit of blankets and clothes? He decided on the alternative option: setting Scully down beside his bed where they could more easily disrobe. Once she was safely on the ground, Scully unlocked her hands from around Mulder's head and ran her fingers down his chest. Mulder let out a soft chuckle, and then he noticed what Scully was doing; she retracted her hands from him and gripped the bottom of her green sweater. Mulder teased the front of her teeth with his tongue before breaking the embrace. Scully swept off her jacket and pulled off her sweater, letting both drop to one side before suddenly coming to a standstill. Mulder stared at his partner; reckless affection had morphed into uncertainty, even fear. The spell of the moment had broken for her.

"Should we do this?" she suddenly asked.

"Scully," he began huskily, "if you're going to give me some line about Bureau regulations on fraternization between agents, you can save it."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Should we do this?" she repeated. Mulder's heart palpitated wildly as his entire body seemed to surge with energy. He inhaled and exhaled slowly a few times in attempt to calm himself down. Finally, he found himself able to speak, albeit raggedly.

"It depends if it's what you want," he returned. The rational side of his mind was rejoicing at the sudden halt in their progress. Anything to make Scully's adaptation to a life without him easier. But Mulder couldn't deny his private disappointment. He had been so close to achieving something he had wanted for so long.

She refused to look at him, but Mulder needed an answer from her.

"What do you want, Dana?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** _I finally give you Chapter 2. I do want to note that this chapter digs into some more serious matters only glossed over in_ The X-Files _. That's nothing against the show, but I wanted to bring such issues a little more to the forefront._

 _Otherwise, t_ _here are numerous references to previous episodes in this chapter, some of them more vague than others. To help with that, here's a listing of some of the referenced episodes: Season 1's "The Jersey Devil," Season 2's "Duane Barry"/"Ascension," "Irresistable," Season 4's "Never Again," "Small Potatoes," Season 5's "Folie a Deux," Season 6's "Milagro," and Season 7's "Orison."_

Finally, happy reading, folks!

* * *

A clatter against the window woke her. Her body convulsed sharply as her eyes flew open. She had been in one of those deep, deep sleeps where even the smallest noise can jar you awake. The rhythmic clatter against the glass continued, and she looked over for the source of the noise. A dull brown tree branch against the morose backdrop of a gray sky tapped repeatedly on the window thanks to an ongoing storm. She could see small droplets of rain cling to the glass. It was a rainy Wednesday in Washington D.C.

Once the day's somber weather conditions filtered into her sleep-clouded mind, she slowly realized she wasn't at home. She wasn't in her own bed, and furthermore, she was without any clothes. She blinked hurriedly as she tried to piece together the night before, but her groggy mind didn't want to work that quickly.

 _Alright,_ Dana Scully thought to herself a bit nervously. _Let's ensure I'm alright. I don't feel feverish or drugged. Have I incurred any bodily damage?_ She pulled her arms from beneath the single heavy blanket that covered her. An initial inspection told her that she'd not been wounded anyway; there were no gashes, puncture marks, or bruises of any sort. That was a good sign, but a low throbbing pain settled on her limbs. She carefully stretched her legs under the blanket and sensed a similar soreness there. Her legs were stiff. _I don't remember any physical exertion_ , Scully thought hazily. _Have I been running?_ She slowly moved her tired limbs to try and relieve some of the stiffness, and a sudden fear settled on her as her mind continued to sharpen in prolonged consciousness. _Why am I naked_? Her foot brushed up against something under the blanket. _Flesh_ , her mind hastily communicated.

Scully's chest constricted and her heart about stopped as a sharp gasp escaped her. She spun her head to one side; she was laying shoulder to shoulder with someone—a man, she deduced, based upon his overall size and bare chest. Her eyes roamed up his chest and to the back of his head. Short, brown hair covered the man's scalp, and Scully quickly realized that she knew that hair—and the head to which it belonged—though the man was facing away from her at the moment. Despite her realization, she could still feel the tension of nervousness within her. She had to confirm that the man next to her was who she thought he was. She had too many nightmarish scenarios to take a chance on anything remotely out of the ordinary. Scully eyed the man's chest; his breathing was slow and rhythmic. He was still asleep. Attempting not to jostle the bed and risk waking him, Scully slowly sat up and leaned over his prone figure. If she could just get a look at his face….

Fox Mulder. It _was_ Fox Mulder. The anxiety that had built up within her was quickly expelled in a long sigh as she abruptly fell back onto the bed. As the pillow comfortably cushioned her head, she closed her eyes just to take in the sounds around her. Perhaps some quiet reflection would settle down her jangled nerves and thumping heart—let her body return to a normal rhythm. With her eyes closed, her hearing alternatively sharpened. A rush of wind blew the tree branch against the bedroom window, so it resumed its monotonous _tap tap taping_. A light rainfall slapped against the glass. While an avid fan of sunshine and warm weather, Scully loved the sound of thunderstorms and rushing water. The rumble of a thunderstorm passing overhead while snuggled up in bed was among the most tranquil and soothing experiences ever, in her opinion. The additional faint sound of Mulder's shallow breathing as he lay next to her only improved the experience. On the other hand, the knowledge that Mulder was lying next to her after an unexpected night in his bed only caused reality to come rushing back to Scully.

Her eyes popped open again, and she stretched her neck, flexing it left and right. Despite the stiffness and soreness she felt, she knew she'd need to get moving soon. Scully sat up again, and leaned over to look at Mulder's sleeping face. He was calm and at peace, probably the most peaceful she had ever seen him outside the times he was heavily sedated and lying in a hospital bed. It was a nice sight; Mulder deserved an authentic sense of peace, especially after all the years he had invested in the search for Samantha or his beloved truth. He was owed some happiness outside the realm of his all-encompassing quest. Scully smiled.

Slowly, her eyes drifted down the length of his body, mostly uncovered by the blanket. His arms lay relaxed against his chest and stomach, lightly pinning the blanket to him. His long legs stretched out to the foot of the bed. Scully had forgotten what an admirable body Mulder had; she was so used to seeing him in suits or the occasional t-shirt accompanied by his worn leather jacket. During those circumstances where she had seen him nude, she had more pressing concerns to attend to: combating a debilitating illness, trying to stave off death, or preparing for yet another government-issued quarantine. Scully chuckled lightly to herself before her eyes strayed to look at her own body—equally naked.

 _Well, that explains the soreness_ , she mused to herself. It had been so long since she had been with a man. She couldn't remember what that was like anymore—let alone what it was like to wake up in the morning next to one.

Scully had invested herself so fully into the X-Files over the last seven years that any semblance of a personal life or a sex life no longer existed for her. She never knew when she was going to get called to fly across the country for a case. She spent more nights a week in a motel than in her own bed at home in Georgetown. And that didn't even include the odd night she spent on Mulder's couch when he was recovering from a recent hospital visit or the nights at The Lone Gunmen's apartment when crucial data had to be analyzed overnight.

She had tried to remain personable and social early in her assignment to the X-Files. She had visited with friends, gone to parties, and done all the other communal activities common to a woman her age. She even went on a date or two. But nothing ever came of it. The dates were fine, and the men were nice enough, if not charming. Scully vaguely recalled a specific date that Mulder had characteristically interrupted early in their partnership. _Rob or Rod_ , Scully thought to herself, struggling to remember the man's name. He had been a perfect gentleman despite the obscurities of the date and the rude interruption. Scully seemed to remember him going so far as to actually ask her on a second date, though she declined. Her heart hadn't been in it at the time. She was much too caught up in the whirlwind affair of working with Mulder on the X-Files.

And then there was the additional fact that working with Mulder proved to be consistently dangerous. People frequently died on their cases—innocents that they had briefly met or interviewed during the conduction of their investigations. Old friends and associates were frequently caught up in the mayhem, too: Mulder's Bureau buddies, Jerry Lamana and Reggie Purdue, and poor Jack Willis had all tragically died. Ultimately, it wasn't safe for Scully to be involved with anyone so personally or romantically; there was too much risk involved. Scully had found herself shying away from going out with friends or on dates; she didn't want to be the cause of their untimely deaths. Keeping to herself and staying in at night slowly became a habit, one compounded by the fact that she always had paperwork to go over or a flight to catch. And the habit ultimately turned into the norm for her. She found that she didn't miss the obnoxious social scenes and outings much. Her life—just like Mulder's—slowly belonged to the X-Files and their work.

Scully considered her last date—if it even could be called a date. Ultimately, the entire ordeal ended up as an X-File. _Ed Jerse_ , Scully thought with a stab of remorse tinged with embarrassment. She had been diagnosed with cancer, and she wasn't ready to release control of her life as her body decided to rapidly shut down. Jerse had lost his marriage, his children, and his job. They were both hurting and looked to each other for solace and a freedom from pain. A chance conversation in a tattoo parlor led to drinks and stories in a ramshackle bar. Accepting Jerse's invitation to go out went against Scully's better instincts, but at the time, she just didn't care—not to mention that she was angry at Mulder at the time. She had needed to cut loose and cope with the news of her cancer diagnosis in her own way. It ended with her getting a tattoo, an Ouroboros on her lower back. Scully reached behind her and touched the spot where she knew the ink was etched; she twisted around and tried to catch a glimpse of it, but it was placed in a difficult spot for her to see without the assistance of a mirror. She traced a circle on her back lightly with her forefinger, her eyes drifting to Mulder once more. He was aware of her tattoo. He _had_ to be considering its significance in the later filed X-File. Scully wasn't sure if she had ever openly shown it to him, though. That case—the entire event with Jerse—had been a point of contention for them for a time. Mulder had been furious at her that she could be so reckless as to go home with a stranger, and a delusional one at that. Such carelessness was how ignorant women got killed, he had reminded her, and she had almost been counted among them. She had understood Mulder's silent anger and apathy toward her at the time of the incident; he couldn't imagine what would compel her to even take such an action—the ever-rational, clever Dana Scully. Of course, that was before she had told him about her diagnosis.

Even after telling him the truth—even after her cancer went in remission—Scully could still sense that she had hurt Mulder by spending that night with Jerse. Truth be told, nothing had come of it. Perhaps a couple drunken, distraught kisses. But afterwards, they had both gone to bed—she in the bedroom and he on the couch. It proceeded nothing like her previous night with Mulder—where she began on the couch and somehow ended up in his bed.

And while her night with Mulder—when they were actually awake and speaking and theorizing—had began with a sense of distress and perhaps hopelessness, it ended on a deliberate, conscious note. They had not simply crushed into each other, sloppily making out as they stumbled to the bed. There had been decisive purpose to their interaction. Scully supposed the entirety of the night before served as a prime example of the nature of their partnership on both a professional and private level. Nothing was ever base or carnal or selfish between them; it was refreshingly genuine.

Such reflections didn't distract Scully from the morning-after guilt she felt, though. She had honestly enjoyed her night with Mulder and was glad he had gently convinced her to go ahead with it despite her hesitancies. Nonetheless, she still questioned her own motives in sleeping with him. Yes, she wanted it to happen, but a side of her was still agitated by her last encounter with Daniel Waterston—that he thought there was a future to be had between them. She was forced to dash his hopes for a second time, and Scully feared that her seemingly heartless action had left her craving for affection in whatever form in came; in this case, the form of Fox Mulder.

Suddenly immensely uncomfortable with the thought of sitting there naked in Mulder's bed for a moment longer than she had to, Scully slid off it and onto the ground. She glanced up at the window as the minor storm continued to pass through. The dim gray of the sky was just as gray as before, so she couldn't hazard a guess of how much time had passed or what time it actually was. Out of habit, she raised her wrist to check her watch, but found it missing. The bedside table nearest her held nothing but old papers and other clutter. She turned around to look at the table by Mulder, his preferred table no doubt since a desk lamp and alarm clock sat on it.

7:13.

 _Well, that answers that question_ , Scully thought. There was still the matter of finding her watch, though. She didn't remember taking it off the night before, so had Mulder done so? What about her—? Scully's hands flew to her neck. The thin, gold chain was still there. She breathed a sigh of relief. Her fingers nimbly ran along the chain seeking the little religious icon she always kept on her person. Finally, she felt the familiar shape of the tiny, unadorned cross. She held it up so she could get a good look at it, almost as if it confirm it was actually there and not some phantom image. Satisfied with its appearance, she set it back down and returned to her original purpose: finding her watch so that she could quickly dress and get out of Mulder's apartment before he woke.

Scully wandered around the end of the bed and up by Mulder. Her eyes quickly spied her prize. Alongside the desk lamp and alarm clock sat her watch. To Scully's surprise, it looked exceptionally nondescript next to Mulder's larger watch and cluttered among his personal effects.

 _No, this is not going to become the norm_ , Scully promised herself as she snapped her watch on. _I've "played house" with Mulder before. I'm not sure it's an experience I want to repeat_. She had the distinct feeling she had just made a promise she would be breaking, but she wasn't of the right mindset to consider her future with Mulder. She had to concentrate on getting away from him at the moment.

Her eyes quickly scanned the ground for her clothes. Thankfully, they were mostly dropped in a pile on the floor. The only piece she couldn't find were her stockings, and one glance around the room told her that searching for them would be a lost cause. She would make due with the remainder of her outfit. Scooping up the pile, she made her way to the bathroom, stopping for a moment to drape her jacket on the edge of the bed.

Typically, she'd close the bathroom door for a bit of privacy, but at this point, what did it matter? Mulder had seen her naked before. If he happened to wake—something Scully prayed he didn't do—would it be that different to see her dress? Scully didn't want to dilly-dally, though. She slipped on her undergarments followed by her skirt and sweater. She took care to zip up her skirt and nicely fix her sweater over it. That's when she finally got a glimpse of her hair.

 _Obvious bedhead_ , she just about groaned. She fiddled with it some, trying to smooth it down so it looked somewhat presentable. A benefit of having such a short cut was that her hair was easily manageable. It didn't take that much work to maintain, and that included when preparing to take the oft-embarrassing "walk of shame."

Scully didn't find herself ashamed, though—at least for the usual reasons a woman did after unexpectedly spending a night in another's bed. She was just cut up about how her interactions with Daniel possibly affected her later reactions to Mulder. It hadn't been as sincere a first night as she would have wanted, and she just felt she had done Mulder wrong.

Returning to the bedroom, Scully swept up her jacket and pulled it on, watching Mulder all the while. Observing him sleeping so soundly and peacefully did nothing for her already guilty conscience, and she slipped out into his living room. The shoes that she had happily kicked off the previous night upon arriving at Mulder's apartment sat beside the couch. She hastily pulled on her heels before looking around for her last article of clothing: her long outdoor jacket.

Scully had been so tired entering Mulder's apartment the day before that she didn't recall where it had gone. She remembered Mulder taking it from her in the little entrance hall that connected the kitchen to the remainder of the apartment. She began in that direction and immediately spotted her coat appropriately hanging from the coat rack that sat near the front door. As she slipped her coat on, she admired the peculiar piece of furniture. It was a coat rack like any other except for the unusual addition of pool balls on the end of each arm.

 _Where does Mulder find these things?_ she asked herself as she checked her coat pockets for her keys, FBI badge, and wallet. She rarely carried a purse since it was a cumbersome item and she usually needed unrestricted movement. Coats with overly large pockets suited her just fine. She fished her keys out from one such pocket, unlocked Mulder's front door, and quietly stepped out. Silently thanking Mulder for insisting all those years ago that she take a spare key to his apartment, she locked the door once more. Her heels _click clicked_ as she marched down the hall to the elevator.

* * *

Another choice. The bath or the shower? Scully crossed her arms over her large, fluffy robe as she considered her options. She knew she wanted to clean herself off after yet another visit to the hospital the day before, not to mention after having driven home in yesterday's clothes. Despite being a medical doctor, and therefore being overtly familiar with hospitals, morgues, and other such places of healing and research, she never got over the feeling of them. Though they were expected to be among the cleanest places on earth given careful sterilization procedures to ensure that the healthy remained that way while the sick got better, the cleanliness and the stark white-washed walls and the sea of running doctors coats and scrubs always left a tacky, oily feeling on her skin. Whenever she returned from an autopsy or a shift at the hospital, Scully wanted nothing more than a warm bath to scrub away all the filth.

And that's where Scully met a roadblock. As much as she wanted a bath, she had refused to take one over the last few months. When she stared at her lovely claw-footed tub, all she could think of was Donald Pfaster.

"I'm gonna go run you a bath," he had said, and he had run one. She'd seen that after police came to clear up the crime scene. Her bedroom had been in shambles, the hallways showed some signs of struggle, but her bathroom had been immaculate. Candles lit everywhere with a myriad of soaps and shampoos displayed proudly near her sink. The room stank of scented bath oils. The image was burned into her memory and still chilled her to the bone.

Pfaster had invaded her home, her most private of sanctuaries. And that wasn't the first time that was to happen. Duane Barry had done the same thing. Both men were dead, of course, so there was something positive to take away from the events, but it wasn't without the want of effort. Pfaster had actually died in her own living room with a bullet from Scully's own gun. Mulder had him in hand, but Scully couldn't let it continue. She thought Pfaster realized that; he'd looked at her just before she pulled the trigger, maybe admiring the fact that he had forced a normally cool-headed, analytical woman to catch a glimpse of the wild demon chained up within herself. For the briefest of moments, Scully became something akin to him, and it perhaps allowed him to die with a twisted sense of accomplishment as he corrupted the seemingly incorruptible.

Men encroaching on and manipulating her for their perverse ends; Scully was sick of it. If it wasn't the Duane Barry's and Donald Pfaster's, it was the Eddie Van Blundht's and Phillip Padgett's.

At first glance, Eddie appeared sincere and innocent, a doughy man-child who'd likely always been overlooked in favor of his more traditionally handsome peers. He was pleasant to talk to—a goofy, well-mannered oddball who used his natural charm and sensitivity to win over women. It was easy to feel sympathy for Eddie and his unwanted plight—until one learned of Eddie's miraculous shape-shifting ability and his decision to pose as husband's and loved ones to rape unwitting women.

Scully had nearly been one of his many victims, too.

As to be expected, he pretended to be Mulder, Scully's partner of nearly four years at the time. Even three years later, she kicked herself for not having seen through Eddie's charade. She _knew_ Mulder, yet she had been taken in by a sensitive pseudo-Mulder. In hindsight, she realized that maybe that had been what she wanted out of their relationship at the time, though: a Mulder who was willing to look at a life outside the X-Files and his elaborate conspiracies; a Mulder who could be a regular person for the night, having a drink and swapping life stories. While Eddie might have thought he was doing her a favor—presenting her with a side of Mulder she hadn't seen before—that was far from the truth. He had no right to masquerade as Mulder for the supposed purpose of serving mutual interests: emotional needs for her and physical ones for him. Eddie's logic was at fault; he was _not_ Mulder, and anything he tried to do in Mulder's stead did not equate to Mulder having done so. If the night had gone according to Eddie's plans, Scully would not have slept with Fox Mulder; she would have been raped by Eddie Van Blundht.

And if she had allowed herself to be, Scully would have been ravished by Phillip Padgett. In a certain way, Padgett's pursuit of her scared her more than the other men's attempts to violate her. Whereas the others focused on the physical, Padgett had been entranced by the heart. She had been a muse to him—fulfilling his fantastical emotional and sexual desires. That's why he wrote about her. He thought he saw a kindred soul in her: a lonely woman looking for the passion of another to enflame and enrapture her while she walked through a world misjudged and overlooked by others. And Padgett was mesmerized by this interpretation of her, thinking he had found a woman he could love—a woman who could actually fulfill his emotional and sexual desires in reality.

Padgett certainly knew Scully, at least insofar as it regarded her everyday life: that she lived in Georgetown, that she frequently went jogging, that she was religious. No doubt he had learned that information from observing her for a prolonged period of time. A period that culminated in his moving next door to Mulder so that he could be near to her and finally have the fateful opportunity to meet her.

The look he had given her on their first meeting in the elevator. He just stared, as if transfixed. It was uncomfortably intimate. And every later time they met, it was the same stare. As if he believed that the harder he looked, the easier he would be able to read her soul. And while he might have been able to perceive some things, he wasn't able to guess it all.

He believed her to be lonely—a woman stuck in a man's world and required to constantly appear cold and in control while secretly seeking intimacy and the chance to be perceived as womanly. Perhaps that had been true; perhaps that's why Scully had been intrigued by him. He claimed to know so much about her, and so much of that had hit home. The way he looked at her; it was as if he did love her, and his thoughts on the world spoke of a greater knowledge and understanding of the universe's wonders. It left one entranced and at a loss for words.

But her dignity still remained. Even if Mulder hadn't burst into Padgett's apartment at the appropriate moment—impeccable timing when one considered it—she wouldn't have fallen into Padgett's arms sick with unrepressed desire. As much as he seemingly loved her, the feelings could not be reciprocated. The Scully he wrote of in his book was a character, an imitation of her. And as much as he willed Scully to fall in love with him, as her counterpart had done, she couldn't. By the end of his incarceration, Padgett had finally realized that. Scully was not the woman of his dreams and his writings; she was not a character that could be compelled and controlled, no matter how well he claimed to understand her. And in Padgett's mind, that realization came about because of one fatal mistake on his part.

Scully was already in love.

She stepped over to the shower, having decided to forego a bath once more. The warm, drizzling water soothed her joints, but Padgett still swum in the forefront of her mind. His final bit of conjecture before his subsequent death: that she was in love. It had struck her forcefully, not necessarily because he had come to help her realize a truth, but because he was able to perceive that truth—one she was already painfully aware of. It was a truth she had been trying to keep hidden—from herself, from the rest of the world. And Padgett had simply cracked through her distant demeanor and identified the one secret of her heart.

It hadn't escaped her who Padgett was directing those final statements to either: "Agent Scully is already in love." She had been spoken of in the third person, like a character in one of his books again. He only graced her with a look upon mentioning her name; otherwise, he spoke to Mulder. For what purpose? To inform Mulder of the fact? To concede victory to Mulder? To warn Mulder not to miss his chance? To commend Mulder on having won her heart?

Whether or not Mulder understood Padgett's message at the time, she had no idea. She suspected he did, but he made no indication one way or the other. They simply continued business as usual, at least until the night of the Millenium.

And though she hadn't admitted it to him, Mulder had won her heart. She tried to pinpoint the exact moment she had realized; it was a tricky thing to do because emotions evolve. They are constantly in flux. Looking back in hindsight, Scully could perceive that at one point she felt strictly friendship towards Mulder, yet at another point, new emotions were suddenly present—as if out of nowhere. While uncertain, Scully suspected she could determine the turning point in her life: at a hospital in Chicago at the conclusion of their fifth year working together. Shortly before the Antarctica incident.

She and Mulder were stuck at their typical impasse. He believed in the validity of something thoroughly implausible while she saw no evidence supporting his theory. There was a striking difference between that occasion and every other case they had worked on formerly, though. Scully had refused to help Mulder seek out his proof on the basis that doing so would maintain the delusions of the mentally ill Gary Lambert. Scully had driven Mulder into working alone, and he subsequently acted as he always did—as a man determined to discover the truth no matter the cost. Scully had abandoned him when he had asked for her trust, and without her aid, he was forced to act rashly. After a failed attempt to attain the proof he sought, he was labeled—like the late Lambert—as a madman.

Scully had declared that she would not act so as to offer credence to Lambert's ravings. But what of Mulder's insistencies? Though she rarely believed in Mulder's assertions of mythical beasts and superhuman powers, she had always given him the chance to prove himself, and more often than not his implausible theories were right. And hadn't he always listened to her many refutations as they underwent their investigations? Yet in the case of Gary Lambert, Scully had refused to consider the notion that what he possibly saw was real. She had betrayed Mulder's trust, and he had paid a price, yet he did so without placing blame at her feet. Of all things, he pleaded with her instead—not necessarily asking her to believe him; he just didn't want to be disregarded. He had always been disregarded in life—by his family, by his superiors, by his peers. He was Spooky Mulder, the mad genius chasing after imaginary monsters. And he had finally ended up strapped to a hospital bed, where he ultimately belonged in the minds of many. And the partner he was supposed to be able to trust implicitly could only look on sympathetically wishing him well. Scully couldn't look past the strictly scientific diagnosis that Mulder suffered from some fanatical delusion because there was no evidence to the contrary. And she was a scientist, ultimately—a marshal of hard facts and irrefutable data. Without such evidence, there was no case—no matter what Mulder believed in.

But that was always it, wasn't it? Mulder was the believer while she, Scully, was the skeptic. She couldn't see the world for what it was as easily as him. But could she make the leap with his life on the line?

 _Scully, you have to believe me. Nobody else on this whole damn planet does or ever will. You're my one in five billion_.

Belief. Believe. I want to believe: Mulder's mantra. The one plastered up on the wall of their basement office. That's what it came down to. It wasn't easy to believe. It always required a personal effort. Scully could attest to that after having reclaimed her faith. For years she wore her cross out of pure habit, a keepsake of a Christmas long ago. But with her cancer diagnosis and the looming threat of death, she found herself relying on her faith once again, praying for Mulder to root out the latest government conspiracy, praying for a cure. An impending threat enabled her to take the risky leap toward belief. A risk because with belief came the prospect of hope, and what would happen if that hope died?

And Mulder's words were a portent of another such threat—of losing him. Scully wasn't sure if she wanted to believe or if she did believe. But she wanted to _try_ to believe. And she had found the strength to take that leap again.

A ringing phone shook her from her reflections. The sound reverberated through her tiled bathroom from its source in her nearby bedroom. Scully wrung the clinging water from her hair and stepped into the chill air of the bathroom. Snatching up her robe, she pulled it on and padded out to her bedroom.

"Scully," she answered, picking up the phone on its fifth ring. She hoped the dialer hadn't already hung up.

"Uh...hey, Scully," came a familiar drawl.

"Mulder," she replied, her breath unexpectedly hitching up in her throat. What was he doing calling? She fiddled with her robe tie and peered over to her alarm clock by the bed. 9:37 it glared at her in bold, red lights.

 _Just over two hours since I left...and he's already calling?_ She wasn't sure if she was ready to talk to him just yet. She simultaneously became aware of the tone-deafening silence on the phone.

"What's going on?" she awkwardly asked, beginning to wonder whether something had happened.

"I was wondering if everything was alright," came the curious reply.

"Uh...yeah. Why?" Scully's brows knit together in confusion and she stiffened.

"Well, I woke up and you were gone," Mulder said matter-of-factly. She could hear the hint of a smile in his tone. "I almost made good on my promise to call in the search and rescue teams." Realization dawning upon her, her straight-backed stance relaxed some.

"Oh," she breathed. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I-I just wanted to get home and take a shower. Spending the last few days in and out of the hospital was not my idea of a fun weekend." She blatantly overlooked the fact that she suddenly found herself a bit uncomfortable around Mulder with her motives for last night's actions in question.

"And the paperwork," Mulder added.

"I'm sorry."

"You said last night you had paperwork you wanted to get to today," he clarified, sounding a bit surprised she had forgotten.

"Yes!" she replied, perhaps a bit too exuberantly. "That, too."

"Will you be at the office?"

"Probably not. I have what I need here, and I'd like to have a day at home. I never did get that bath on Saturday," she quipped, feebly attempting to add a bit of levity to the seemingly awkward, forced conversation. Scully wondered if Mulder sensed anything off. If he did, he made no indication of it.

"I hear you." She could practically hear him grinning through the phone. "I plan on spending the day in, too. Figuring out what to tell Skinner in my report of the England incident."

"I'd steer clear of anything suggesting it was a big waste of time." Scully felt an authentic smile slip to her lips. Mulder chuckled.

"I'd considered that much. Just got to figure the rest out." He sighed. "But I'll see you in the office tomorrow?"

"Yep," she replied. Maybe by then she'd have the courage to confront him.

"See you then." The phone clicked against her ear. She set it down with a sigh.

The conversation as a whole could easily have been much more disastrous. Mulder had simply been concerned about her well-being, and she couldn't fault him. She did have the unfortunate habit of being abducted by serial killers, mad men, and all that sort. But she wondered if he had expected her to stay at his apartment through the morning. Would he have gotten up and served her coffee as he read the morning paper? Or would he have offered to take her out to a real breakfast considering the usual barren state of his fridge? After one night together, was that what he saw them as: a real couple? She fantasized a stereotypical 1950s household scenario. Her waking up early to cook eggs and bacon on the stovetop. Mulder sitting down at his dining table to browse the paper as she readied his place setting with sugar and milk and toast and orange juice and whatever else a 50s housewife prepared for her husband. The image burst as she laughed at the idea of Mulder being so ordinary and mundane, let alone her. No. Whatever came of their future, that certainly wasn't it.

But she did have to consider their future, and more importantly—at least for the moment—the ramifications of the night before. She felt she had done an ill-turn, taking advantage of Mulder's affection towards her and close proximity to placate an ardent yearning that had suddenly been aroused within her. Daniel Waterston's unexpected reappearance had been the catalyst, and it incited a flurry of emotions and questions within Scully. She had realized that she wanted for something—something that was lacking in her life. What that was, she had no earthly idea. Yet after the emotional turmoil surrounding Waterston's near-death and Mulder's unexpected return—while in the darkness of apartment 42—she clung to the idea that the missing facet was Mulder himself. Having him in a way that went beyond simple friendship and partnership.

She had wanted him, and she had gotten him, but had it been for the right reasons? Despite Mulder's assurances that he wanted her equally, Scully believed that her reasons had to be inferior to his, resulting from a selfish, conceited source stirred up by Daniel's promptings.

And Scully had to tell Mulder as much. If she were ever to feel comfortable around Mulder again rather than a user—like some addict driven solely by uncontrollable need—she had to explain herself.

Secondarily, she had to close off Daniel Waterston from her life forever lest he incite her to more rash actions. And that would mean another visit to the hospital.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** _I apologize for the long lapse in updating! Hopefully you guys still have interest in this obscure story!_

 _Otherwise, in typical_ X-Files _fashion, this segment is technically Part One a two-parter! And Part Two will follow shortly!_

* * *

Mulder leaned back in his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He tossed his basketball in the air mindlessly. Writing his report on his trip to the English countryside was going less than smoothly. At his own admission, the journey had been a waste; now he had to find a way to justify the expenses to the Bureau. They didn't like to hear that their funds were being used for naught, and Mulder had been in hot water in that regard too many times in the past. He didn't want to repeat the mistake.

Mulder sighed and thumped the basketball down on his desk. He glanced at the blank document he had opened on his laptop. Scully had been right from the get-go; the matter hadn't been remotely FBI related. He had no jurisdiction across international waters, and he hadn't been following a lead to a case based in the United States. He had gone because he couldn't pass up on the chance to uncover the tantalizing mystery of crop circles.

If only he could consult with Scully on his report. Being the rational-minded scientist, she was always a good soundboard to bounce ideas off of in terms of what served as adequate evidence in an investigation. That's why she'd hounded him for seven years, after all. To add a bit of credence to his madcap theories.

Mulder debated calling her up again and requesting her aid. But he was uncertain if she really wanted to hear his voice right then. Their earlier phone conversation hadn't been the most comfortable. And her unexpected disappearance that morning made him wonder if something was wrong.

As far as he was concerned, the previous night had gone fine, albeit unexpectedly. He had anticipated a long night's sleep after the hustle and bustle of travel over the weekend. The last thing he had expected was to fall into bed with Scully, but he didn't find any fault with it.

It's not that he'd been looking for opportunities to lure Scully to his bed. He was well aware of the parameters of their relationship, and he had willingly and happily lived within those boundaries for a number of years. Had the previous night not happened, he would still abide by the unsaid rules that existed between Scully and himself: that at the end of the day, they were colleagues, work partners. Yes, they were friends, of course. Good friends who had been through hell and high water together. After all they'd seen and suffered through, it would have been a miracle had they not developed a deep, strong sense of friendship—perhaps a nigh unbreakable one. They complemented one another so perfectly in the professional field where their typical roles felt like a second skin. And in a personal setting, they opened up to one another in ways they had never done so before—at least that was the truth in Mulder's case.

Nonetheless, Mulder would be lying to himself if he didn't confess that he had wanted the events of the previous night to occur for a few years now. The temptation was even more pressing following his deadly diagnosis. He direly wanted to take his chance before he lost it.

And the sound of that ticking clock was why he'd suddenly gotten the courage to kiss her at the turn of the century. Well, that and because he could traditionally get away with kissing her on New Year's Eve without the sense that he was forcing their relationship beyond its long-existent framework. He was simply imparting the customary "Happy New Year" kiss in celebration of the new millennium. On a more personal level, though, he was testing the waters—seeing how he'd like it and seeing how Scully would react to a kiss from him. He remembered that mean right hook 40s Scully had given him on the deck of the Queen Anne after he unceremoniously planted one on her. He would rather not get another black eye from his current partner, so he ensured the gesture was chaste and simple. And Mulder found he had certainly enjoyed it; Scully, meanwhile, hadn't reeled back in disgust, so that was a good sign.

Even while he had acted for the purpose of seeing how their relationship could potentially progress, Mulder didn't push the matter afterwards. He left it where it was, resuming his casual-professional attitude that he had always had with Scully. It was the safest decision for both of them. Scully was always naturally reluctant to get close to people for fear of being hurt, and Mulder had a date with death coming up. The last thing they needed was to enter into a romantic relationship of any sort. Least of all when it primarily was to assuage his personal sense of failure.

Mulder didn't want to sleep around with any old woman; he could approach any streetwalker for that. And he didn't just want to pleasure himself. His myriad of triple-X tapes of magazines suited that purpose. The issue wasn't that Mulder would feel like any less of a man if he failed to bring a woman to his bed.

He had specifically wanted Scully; it was more a matter of heartfelt desire stemming from a seven year-long partnership and friendship in which they both constantly and consistently took risks for the good of the other. It was because she celebrated with him during his successes and consoled him during his failures. She never sought to abandon him or mislead him. And it was that source of strength he wanted to rely on and draw close to in his last months. Mulder wanted to make it irrefutably known how much he cared for and respected her, how unequivocally important she was to him, and how he found his ultimate sense of contentment and satisfaction when he was around her.

And he had finally achieved that end.

But now the dynamics of their relationship had suddenly shifted. In refusing to deny that which practically constituted as his "last wish," he had put Scully at risk. Given her minor hesitations the night before, she would view the entire ordeal with a sickening sense of guilt and dread or find that she, too, took comfort in him and be more willing to invest herself in him. In either case, Scully would be changed. He had already sensed such a change in her. Her flight coupled with her awkward mannerisms on the phone tipped him off that something was on her mind, and he had a strong suspicion it concerned the night before.

Despite being well aware of the potential repercussions of such an action, Mulder had flaunted them—like he did so much else—with the excuse that he was acting on personal ambition, the inherent sense that he was doing right, at least so far as it concerned himself. That had always been one of his faults, a seeming inability to consider the circumstances of others when his own emotions were at play. And now he would have to suffer the consequences. His relationship with Scully was in flux. He had no idea where his personal relationship with her lay and he had no idea if he had jeopardized their working relationship. While he felt he could still approach Scully on a solely professional basis, he was unsure about her. And to top it all off, he would have to find a way to subtly prepare her for the days to come—days that didn't include him.

Mulder stared at his computer screen, the cursor blinking tauntingly on the otherwise blank document, awaiting for him to add the necessary text.

Musing on his rapidly-changing personal and professional relationship with Scully would not help him in writing his report to Skinner. Mulder groaned before sitting upright in his chair, determined to try and get something down on the page. Maybe he'd ask the Gunmen if they could dig up anything on the computer algorithm used to predetermine crop circle locations. Perhaps they could find the mathematician who created the equation and Mulder could question him on the basis of his work.

A sharp rap echoed across the room from his front door. Mulder glanced behind him somewhat relieved to be pulled from his laborious task and pesky personal thoughts. He crossed the room, dragging his sock-covered feet against the carpet, and opened the door. Much to his surprise, Scully stood there.

"Uh...hey, Scully," he greeted, perplexed. Mulder had no idea what he sudden and unexpected arrival at his door meant; it could either be entirely good or entirely bad. She slipped under his outstretched arm as he held the door open for her to enter. "Did you forget something?" he asked, turning back to her after shutting the door.

"No, I didn't," she replied, briefly looking at him as they wandered into the living room. She seemed awfully tight-lipped, and Mulder could immediately sense the tension rolling off her in waves. Regardless of his curiosity, he figured his best option was to remain casual and neutral. First and foremost, he had to calm her down.

"So what do I owe the honor?" He leaned back against the doorframe and crossed his arms. "I thought you were busy doing paperwork today." Scully scrunched her eyes. In worry? Embarrassment? Mulder couldn't rightly tell.

"I was hoping to get some done," she admitted. "I guess I'm struggling to keep concentrated." She rubbed at her temples. Mulder grinned.

"Join the club." He pushed off from the doorframe and gestured to his desktop. "My own attempts at being a paper-pusher have proven futile so far. Though it beats doing background checks all day."

"Your report on the England trip?" Scully asked brusquely. Mulder sensed that shop-talk would help her ease her discomfort.

"Yeah." He crossed the room and picked up the basketball once more, tossing it from hand to hand. "I can't figure out how to possibly justify the trip to the Bureau bean counters."

"Well," Scully sighed, "aside from your personal interest in the crop circle phenomena, what can be gained in learning about their origins?"

"We can determine their source," Mulder replied. "Whether they're something we should conduct research into because they are extraterrestrial in nature or an earthly occurrence."

"And what would that information provide the Bureau?" Scully pressed, slipping off her coat and tossing it on the arm of the couch.

"I can't possibly know that, Scully," he responded somewhat agitatedly, setting down the ball. "That's why they have to be investigated. They're a means to discovering the truth."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, Mulder," Scully replied with a sympathetic nod. "But it's not me you have to convince. Crop circles have no known effect on the agricultural field or any iota of day-to-day existence. So what could the Bureau possibly gain in researching them?" Scully had taken on the patronizing, insistent tone that he knew so well. "At least give me a theory on what you think we could potentially learn." Her sea blue eyes bored into his. Mulder broke eye contact with her and sighed, not knowing exactly where to start. It was precisely why he was stuck in writing his report, and Scully had picked up on that with obnoxious ease.

"Perhaps," he began uncertainly, "perhaps—if the occurrence of crop circles were discovered to be natural—it would only serve as further confirmation of the existence of mathematical anomalies in nature. The concept that the world is comprised of the perfection of mathematics to some extent." Scully quirked an eyebrow at him.

"That sounds more like one of your fool-proof hunches, Mulder." He shrugged helplessly.

"It's the best I can do after coming home with no conclusive data whatsoever."

"Then write that for Skinner," Scully said decidedly, crossing her arms. "I'll submit an accompanying report detailing my retrieval and interpretation of Colleen Azar's research. Maybe that will help."

"Putting your neck out on the line for me, Scully?" Mulder questioned with one of his lazy smiles.

"Anything to give credence to your little weekend getaway while on the FBI payroll." She met him with a playful glance. Mulder chuckled in return.

"It wasn't exactly my sort of getaway."

"What?" Scully said dubiously. "Mysterious phenomena, an isolated location, and the potential involvement of extraterrestrial activity? That's got you written all over it, Mulder."

"Ohh. Talk dirty to me, Scully." He smiled suggestively, though he was unsure how Scully would take his customary attempt to flirt. On cases and in the field, his flirtations were always light and teasing, but now...he wasn't sure. Scully stared at him a moment before rolling her eyes. Mulder's nervousness immediately dissipated.

 _Still the same old Scully_ , he thought to himself. That was certainly a relief.

"I think your interpretation and my interpretation of that action differs substantially," Scully quipped dryly with a small smile playing at her lips.

"Now _that's_ teasing," Mulder drawled out pointing at Scully. She shrugged wordlessly in response. Mulder grinned, and she rolled her eyes again.

"But back on topic, Mulder—" He nodded agreeably.

"I'll make sure to drag you with me next time I decide to go on a cross-Atlantic weekend getaway."

"Mmm-hmm," Scully nodded. "Or you could listen to me in the first place and forego the trip entirely when you realize you have no legitimate basis for going."

"Touché, Scully." Their back and forth banter was certainly welcome. It was the norm for them, and it brought them to a common, comfortable level exceedingly fast. Mulder sighed and looked Scully up and down, once again wondering at the purpose for her visit. She had nothing in hand; he glanced over at her coat to see if anything sat nearby, a work file or anything. Once again, nothing. "So what did you come by for?" he finally asked. "Need me to return the favor and help you figure out a work-related conundrum? Why those girls decided it would be a good idea to re-enact _The Blair Witch Project_ , for instance?"

"I didn't come about work, actually," she replied, her brow furrowing as tension once again buzzed in the air around them.

"Alright," he responded coolly, gesturing to the couch as he leaned back in his desk chair. She sat and rested her elbows against her knees, clasping her hands in front of her.

"It's about last night," she began. Her eyes flickered to his uncertainly, but he watched her steadily. Mulder had been prepared for some sort of conversation on the subject, and he wasn't about to criticize her for being nervous. "I don't think I did right by you," she continued. Mulder's eyes widened and he couldn't help but chuckle. He didn't know what he'd expect her to say, but that certainly wasn't it.

"Trust me, Scully. You did right be me." He smiled lightly. "You did _more_ than right." She ignored his interruption and continued on.

"I mean to say...I don't think I came to you with... _pure_ intentions."

"'Pure,'" Mulder repeated, feeling how the word sounded in his mouth and trying to determine what significance it had.

"My mind was preoccupied with other matters," she clarified, "and it made me feel wanting and lonely, I suppose." Her tone softened and became more uncertain as she progressed. She wasn't well-versed in divulging her feelings, being too accustomed with keeping to herself and maintaining a tough, proud exterior at headquarters. Mulder was aware of that, but he also knew that _she_ knew he was always willing to hear what she had to say, and—perhaps more importantly—he wouldn't think any less of her.

"Daniel Waterston," he ventured. Her eyes snapped to his, and he glimpsed a flicker of fear. "You can say it," he added calmly. "I won't take offense." She sighed uncomfortably.

"Yeah..." she admitted, turning her gaze from him to stare off into his kitchen. "Daniel," she whispered.

"He really did a number on you, huh?" Mulder said in his customary deadpan. Scully looked back at him, scant tears suddenly glistening in her eyes.

"Yeah," she choked out quietly. "He really made me question the life I was leading." She wiped away some tears with a hand and sniffled. Mulder glanced over to his desk, spotted a small Kleenex box, and handed it over to Scully. She plucked a few Kleenex from it and dabbed at her eyes. "I mean...I'm happy where I am. My family, the Bureau, you." She smiled apologetically at him. "But he really forced me to come to grips with what I was missing. And I guess last night I wondered if it was... _you_."

"Me?" Mulder parroted.

"We're so close, Mulder. All the abductions and near-death experiences between us. Everything we've seen and accomplished."

 _That's an understatement_ , Mulder thought, but he kept it to himself. She sniffled again and rubbed a fresh Kleenex against her nose.

"And we've never been anything more than just partners in all this time. I know I've never been closer to anybody than I've been with you. Not Jack. Not Daniel. Certainly not Marcus. And after talking to Daniel this weekend I just wanted to _feel_ wanted, so why not with you?" She sighed. "That sounds so indifferent, inconsiderate of your feelings," she griped.

"No, no, no," Mulder protested, raising a hand. "It's fine." He covered his mouth with his hand, trying to figure out where to go with his response. "You don't need to be embarrassed by Waterston's words having an effect on you. That's the nature of old flames. I mean, look at Phoebe if you don't believe me," he offered. "And she's more like a living ball of fire."

"Phoebe Greene?" Scully asked, crumpling the Kleenex in her hand.

"Yeah," Mulder nodded. "You've met her. You've seen what a spineless moron she turned me into—and that was only after a couple of days."

"Mulder, that was six years ago," Scully retorted quietly.

"And I swear she'd still have the same effect on me today if she walked through that door." He pointed to the front door of his apartment. "Because that's Phoebe, and that's what she does to me no matter how much I try to ward her off."

"But I don't want that, Mulder," Scully replied. "I don't want to be tied down to Daniel because of our past." Mulder worked his jaw for a moment.

"I don't think we really have a say in it, Scully. We all have someone who sets us off in that way. We just have to wade through the toughest times and hope to come out of it okay." He reached out and took one of her hands in his. She offered a small smile of thanks and gave his hand a squeeze. "And for the record, I'm not...hurt if you think Waterston pushed you into last night. I'm not looking to get into fist fights with your past beaus. The past is the past, and we all have old relationships that stir things up in us." Scully dabbed at the last of her tears.

"Way to make me feel like an idiot, Mulder," she complained weakly. He smiled lightly.

"What can I say? It's a talent." He leaned over toward her, hesitating for just a fragment of a second, and kissed her on the cheek. She played with his hand, running fingers over his knuckles. At least she didn't rebuke he sudden show of affection.

"I still want to do something about Daniel, though," she admitted.

"What is there to do?" Mulder shrugged. "You told him there wasn't a future between you two and to accept responsibility for the pain he caused his family."

"But I know Daniel," Scully persisted, shaking her head. "He won't give up on me just because of my word. He didn't ten years ago."

"He's going to have to realize at some point or another," Mulder tried to soothe her. He clasped her fingers in his and wriggled his thumb back and forth in a thumb war, a game they sometimes played. Scully planted her thumb on top of his. He wriggled out from under it and began to stroke it.

"He's stubborn," Scully replied with finality. She glanced up at Mulder. "He won't give up unless he sees good reason to." She sighed. "So I want to visit him today to give him that reason." Mulder arched his eyebrows curiously.

"Which is?"

"You," she said hesitantly. Mulder closed his eyes and shook his head. That was the last thing he wanted her to say. Phoebe had constantly played mind games of that sort with him; he wasn't about to do so to one of Scully's old lovers.

"I do _not_ want to go toe-to-toe with Waterston in that way," he said in all seriousness.

"And I don't want you to," Scully agreed. "I need you to be there as an example of my life in the FBI. He thinks he can sweep me off my feet with talk of medicine and how it would make better use of my talents as a doctor. I need you to show him that I'm not a naive medical student anymore. That my interests have branched outside the strictly rational and that I'm slowly learning to believe."

"Scully..." Mulder muttered. He did not want to go through meeting Waterston and dealing with his critical gaze. Under certain circumstances, Mulder might have fun talking circles around him about alien life and abnormal phenomena, but not when he'd be entering that hospital room like a usurper, asserting his claim on Scully. Waterston would only see that as a challenge.

"Please, Mulder," Scully pleaded. "I need to get Daniel out of my life so that I can move past this. And if I can somehow help heal the rift between him and Maggie, all the better." Mulder leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers.

"Alright, Scully. As much as I don't want to, I'll do it."

* * *

Scully glanced over at Mulder standing tall and still in his long-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, and customary leather jacket. He looked the picture of calm and cool except for the telltale sign of his fingers drumming against his pants leg. He was agitated and much more nervous than he let on.

Her eyes swept around the small cubicle they were temporarily trapped in. The elevator groaned as it chugged up to higher floors. The heavy silence was broken by the occasional _ding_ of the automated sound system when they reached a new level, but the doors stayed otherwise closed. While she had a momentary reprieve from behaving as the ever-professional Special Agent Dana Scully, she reached out to Mulder's hand and gave it a squeeze. He glanced down at her and tried to offer a reassuring smile, but she wasn't fooled.

"It'll be fine," she muttered, slipping her hand from his as the elevator slowed to a stop.

"I just don't like the idea of walking into a room where I'll be seen as the enemy, an invader who is stomping all over his territory," he whispered back. Scully quirked an eyebrow up at her partner.

"'Territory?'" The doors slid open to reveal a sterile white hospital hallway complete with reception desk, nurses running around in multi-colored scrubs, and the flurry of voices.

"Well, obviously he's very territorial," Mulder explained as Scully stepped from the elevator and strode down the hall. He set his pace to match hers. "He considers you his, and he won't like me mucking up his plans." Scully glanced over at him.

"And you _aren't_ territorial, Mulder?" she replied incredulously.

"I'm...protective of you," Mulder countered. "As both my partner and my friend." Scully met his gaze, staring into his green eyes as they walked side-by-side. "But I wouldn't stand in the way of something you wanted." She nodded; they could let the matter drop for now. She had to figure out how to go about seeing Daniel again.

Thankfully, the pair of the walked up on Maggie Waterston consulting with her father's physician, Dr. Kopeikan, in the hall outside his room. No need for an awkward scene in Daniel's room as Scully once again arrived from out of the blue for yet another hospital visit. Especially after it seemed that she and Maggie had come to a sort of an unspoken agreement that she would remain out of Daniel's life, and subsequently, Maggie's. Scully caught Maggie's eye and raised a hand in greeting with what she hoped would be perceived as a well-wishing smile.

"That's Daniel's daughter," Scully said quietly with a nod toward Maggie. She stepped over to one side to await the woman's arrival. Mulder ducked his head some to hear his partner over the bustle of the active hallway.

"She looks to be about your age," Mulder noted perceptively. Scully frowned. Given her history with Daniel, that was an uncomfortable idea to consider.

"I'm not sure how old she is. We've only met a few times, but I think she might be a few years younger than me." Mulder nodded thoughtfully and straightened up. Scully found herself ruminating on the subject for a moment, but she really didn't want to consider such unpleasant facets of her past; it wasn't something she could change at this point, no matter if she wished to.

Scully glanced around the busy hallway at the nurses and staff unintentionally wondering if that could have been her life. Darting from patient room to room, hastily scanning a chart to pick out standout symptoms. Doing a cursory examination of the patient and offering a diagnosis or recommending further tests. Then disappearing back out into the white-walled world of the hospital and further cases. It would have been a very different sort of life, one in which she would be obliged to persist in her old habit of personal detachment in the workplace. Getting close to anyone was too dangerous in a medical environment because there was always the chance of an unexpected death, and the idea of repeatedly having to cope with the emotional turmoil that accompanied someone's passing was a frightening prospect. It took too much out of you, and despite the chance to do good for the sick and dying of the world, Scully was profoundly happy she had decided against going into the medical field. She was young and had a life to live and enjoy; when she was older and more experienced, perhaps she would be ready to devote her life to such a worthy cause—when she was more prepared to deal with the cost that came with it.

She noticed Maggie's conversation with Daniel's doctor wrap up. Dr. Kopeikan walked briskly further down the hall; Maggie uncomfortably crossed her arms in front of her and wandered Scully's way. The young woman looked better than she had the day before. There was a little more color in her face while the bags under her eyes weren't quite as pronounced. With her father on the mend, she had obviously taken time to clean herself and get a night's rest.

"What are you doing here?" she asked neutrally, coming to a stop in front of Scully and Mulder.

"I was hoping to see your father one last time," Scully replied carefully, aware that she could potentially set off Maggie with her request.

"I thought you were done with him," Maggie replied with more force, her eyes flickering to Mulder for a moment. "I thought you were getting out of our lives."

"I plan to, Maggie," Scully assured her. "But I'm afraid your father won't listen to either of us. He didn't listen to me ten years ago." Maggie's eyes sharpened and her nostrils flared a bit.

"When you left my family in shambles, you mean?" she accused.

"I didn't mean for that to happen," Scully replied firmly. "Maggie, I never actually had an affair with your father. I left before we got that far—when I learned he was a married man with a young daughter."

"You actually think I'm that stupid," Maggie countered with a cynical laugh. Before Scully had a chance to speak, Mulder interjected.

"She's telling you the truth, Ms. Waterston. She told me the whole story last night, and she left your father before their relationship had been consummated." Maggie turned to Mulder warily, wondering who he could be to so blatantly speak about her private affairs.

"This is Special Agent Fox Mulder," Scully introduced. "My partner at the FBI. He's here at my request and strictly in an unofficial capacity." Mulder reached out a hand to Maggie.

"I'm Margaret Waterston," she replied, shaking his hand before returning to her cross-armed position and looking back at Scully coldly.

"No doubt you and your mother thought we had a legitimate affair," Scully said sympathetically. "And I can't blame you for thinking so, but I promise you, Maggie, nothing like that happened. If I had known your father was married, I would never have pursued the relationship in the first place." She could tell Maggie didn't believe her, and there was nothing to be done about that. Maggie would believe what she believed. The young woman clenched her jaw tightly.

"What do you want?" she asked point-blank.

"To try and dissuade your father from further pursuing me," Scully replied honestly. "He told me that he moved to Washington, D.C. ten years ago for the express purpose of following me. I don't want him to repeat that mistake when there's nothing to be gained, and when there's a chance that he will sacrifice his relationship with you in the process." Some hot, angry tears trickled out of Maggie's eyes. She roughly wiped them out of the way.

"And how do you expect to convince him? I've tried to for ten years now!"

"By having him speak to Agent Mulder," Scully said coolly, looking over at her partner. "I'm hoping that once your father realizes I have changed drastically from the young woman I was, he will cease his attempts to win me back. And if all goes to plan, he'll turn his focus into fixing his relationship with you."

"You think having him talk to my dad will help?" Maggie replied, wholly unconvinced. Mulder shifted uncomfortably next to Scully; he was no doubt thinking the same thing.

"I'll always be seen as your father's young, naive student. Agent Mulder is a well-respected professional in his field and has been my partner for the last seven years." Scully could practically feel Mulder's eyes boring into the side of her head at the mention of him being "well-respected," but she paid him no mind. It was not the time for personal quips and in-jokes. "He can inform your father of my work over the last number of years with the FBI, perhaps imparting how I am pleased with what I have accomplished. Not to mention that I am generally satisfied with how my life has turned out. I don't need your father to rescue me from some unfortunate fate." Maggie sighed.

"You can try," she agreed finally. "He recently finished lunch, so he should be awake. I'm going to go down to the cafeteria and get some coffee. Find me there when you're done." Without so much as a smile, she side-stepped Scully and walked down the hall toward the awaiting elevators. Scully stared at her departing back for a moment, before turning back to Mulder and releasing a breath.

"Tense," Mulder commented unhelpfully.

"She's been furious at me for years," Scully replied. "To her, I'm the reason her family's in the state it's in."

"Sounds like most of that blame should fall on Waterston," Mulder countered.

"Yeah," Scully nodded. "He made me think he was an older bachelor. A brilliant man with no one to understand him, and I was that special someone. Cliché, right?" She sighed. "I did love him, but I couldn't bear the thought of being a home-wrecker. I couldn't put his family through that...and look what happened despite my best attempts." Mulder stretched an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into him affectionately.

"You did good, Scully. Now we just have to help Dr. Waterston get the picture." He released her, and she stepped across and hall and to Daniel Waterston's closed door. She took a breath and opened it, peering in.

* * *

 _To be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** _First, something long overdue: thank you to all my readers! Thank you so much for taking times out of your days to read through my stories! Even if you don't review, I love seeing "Visitor" hits on my profile page meaning that a good number of you have taken an interest in my writings! And if you feel so inclined, please do review! I love the feedback-whether good or bad._

Thanks goes out, as well, to ThexInvisiblexGirl, who has helped me monumentally in mapping out the future of this story as well as inspiring numerous one-shots through her own writings or our frequent conversations.

 _For those in the U.S. or elsewhere and are celebrating, Happy Thanksgiving!_

 _And finally, to end on a plot-related note. In the last chapter, I noted that Scully did not consummate her relationship with Daniel Waterston. I did this purposefully because Gillian Anderson voiced that in the original draft of her script for "All Things," she intended to make it clear that Scully and Waterston had never actually had an affair._

 _And now...Part 2._

* * *

 _Last time on_ Keeping Grounded...

Mulder stretched an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into him affectionately.

"You did good, Scully. Now we just have to help Dr. Waterston get the picture." He released her, and she stepped across and hall and to Daniel Waterston's closed door. She took a breath and opened it, peering in.

* * *

Daniel Waterston sat upright in his hospital bed staring at a little TV hung in the opposite corner of his room. A football game was on, and the volume was set fairly low. A single IV poked out of his arm connected to a drip bag hanging on a stand beside his bed. Otherwise, he looked in fine health. Scully suspected he would be discharged any day now. He glanced over to his opening door and an expectant smile broke across his face.

"Ah! The prodigal's son returns—or should I say daughter," he greeted. "I knew that talk last night was just talk." Scully remained in the doorway. She sensed Mulder a few paces behind her, thankfully out of Daniel's sight for the moment.

"Hello, Daniel," she returned in a neutral tone, only allowing the ghost of a smile to cross her face.

"Well, come in!" He beckoned her over. "Have you changed your mind about my offer?" Scully remained resolutely in the doorway for a moment longer.

"I came to make an introduction, actually." At Daniel's puzzled face, she finally stepped inside, holding the door open for Mulder as he followed her. She walked nearer to Daniel and gestured to her partner. "This is Fox Mulder, my partner of the last seven years in the FBI."

"Good afternoon, Dr. Waterston," Mulder greeted politely, moving forward to shake the older man's hand. Daniel offered a cool smile, and respectfully accepted the gesture. "Scully has told me a bit about you." He glanced over at her briefly. "She says you were an excellent instructor." Daniel shot a warm smile towards her. She could sense he was trying to size Mulder up—determine if he was a threat. She also suspected Daniel was wondering why she had brought Mulder with her in the first place. It was an admittedly strange decision on her part, and while it was perhaps inherently cruel to both men—her old lover and current partner meeting under such circumstances—it was the only way she could think to pressure Daniel to let her go and learn to live life for himself.

"Not being modest, I hope, Dana?" Daniel suddenly questioned her amicably. He looked back at Mulder. "She was a very ambitious student." Mulder nodded agreeably.

"Well, she's an ambitious agent. Saved my neck probably a dozen times, at least. One I'm proud to call my partner." A silence settled on the room for a moment. Scully watched Mulder, a bit surprised at his compliment. While he was an affectionate man and certainly cared for and respected her, he didn't often talk of her in such a way. She presumed he was on his best behavior given Daniel's presence; it reminded her in a way of how he behaved when her mother was around. Ever-polite and quick to praise.

"Well, tell me of yourself, Fox," Daniel mature voice cut into the quiet. "Obviously Dana has told you of me, but I know nothing of you. And it seems she wished us to meet for a specific reason." He was fishing for information, Scully suspected. Who was the tall, youthful stranger Scully had brought to him? More specifically, who was he to her?

"Maybe to swap life stories at her expense," Mulder joked lightly. Scully had to keep herself from rolling her eyes. She had to remember that Mulder was incredibly nervous, so he was acting uncharacteristically unlike himself; she hoped that as the conversation progressed, he would fall back into his typical boyish mannerisms rather than the rigid, awkwardity he presented then..

"You know me all too well, Mulder," Scully interjected to try and ease the tension she sensed in the room. "I want nothing more than two influential men of my past to discuss all my most humiliating moments in life." Her tone was dripping with sarcasm.

"We'd do no such thing, Dana," Daniel countered chivalrously. "A beautiful woman should never be made fun of." He reached out for her hand. Scully quickly caught Mulder's eye before allowing Daniel to take it. He patted it affectionately and held it between the two of his.

"I stand corrected," Mulder replied with a respectful nod. "You are right, sir. I suppose the years of working with Scully have made me ignorant to such norms."

He captured Scully's eyes with his, and she saw something there she rarely if ever saw: insecurity. She wondered if it was because of Daniel's touch, but Mulder wasn't that overly sensitive. It seemed to derive from Daniel's words, as if Daniel's petty attempt to impress her had imparted some new fact to him. Something he should have been aware of long before. And because he was ignorant of that fact, his relationship with her was in question—it had lost some of its meaning.

Or perhaps she was seeing too much in a simple nervous glance from her partner. She'd intentionally put him in an entirely awkward position—forcing him to confront a former lover on her behalf. He was bound to be floundering as he tried to ascertain how to best go about his role. She nodded at him encouragingly, but she couldn't determine if that had helped him at all.

"Mulder and I work for a division of the FBI specializing in the investigation of unexplainable phenomena," Scully said, turning back to Daniel. He furrowed his brow disapprovingly.

"Such as what? Ghostly apparitions?" There was a note of levity to his tone; no doubt he thought he was being funny. Scully meant to respond, but Mulder beat her to it.

"That's one variety of phenomena, sir. We've also had cases concerning mythological beasts, superhuman abilities, and previously undiscovered parasitic organisms, to name a few." There was the Mulder she knew so well, talking nonchalantly about discoveries that only belonged in comic books, science fiction, and fantasy novels. Daniel's mouth fell open as he was struck speechless. Scully had anticipated such a reaction; most people were not so open-minded and accepting of their work on the X-Files, and she had expected the older, reputable, no-nonsense Daniel Waterston to be of that sort. Finally, he grinned, looking between Mulder and Scully amusedly.

"You're joking? This is some sort of obscure prank." Mulder shook his head.

"No, sir. Scully and I undergo investigations into the paranormal." Daniel stared and Mulder, perturbed, and turned back to Scully for confirmation.

"Dana?" he asked as if hoping she would refute her partner's claims.

"Mulder's right, " she said firmly with a nod. Years and years ago, she would have confirmed that fact with profound embarrassment, but now with all that she had seen, she was proud of the work she and Mulder accomplished on a daily basis. Daniel was at a loss for words, though.

"Y-you run about pretending your Van Helsing or some kind of Ghostbuster?" Perhaps unconsciously, he pulled his hands from Scully's and she deftly drew hers back.

"No," she replied with a shake of her head. "We learn of a case and investigate it as any other law enforcement agency would; we visit crime scenes, collect evidence, question witnesses. I frequently perform autopsies on victims. Together, we postulate how and why the crime occurred and try to find a culprit. Both Mulder and I then write a report which we turn into our superiors."

"Our division originates from the cold cases that were stored away over the years since the establishment of the FBI by Hoover, so a number of our cases often reference back to those previously incomplete cases," Mulder added unhelpfully. "Sometimes even further back." Scully shook her head imperceptibly. She had just wanted to lay down the groundwork for Daniel, but she expected Mulder wanted to show off in his own way—to toy with Daniel some. At least it was better than his constant nervousness.

"And what conclusions could you possibly draw from such investigations?" Daniel directed the question at Scully, probably having deemed Mulder a madman. Scully took a moment to consider her answer. Finally, she replied.

"That...there are things in this world that I don't understand and probably won't ever. I've seen things that I could only ever dream of."

"You sound like some new-age spiritualist," Daniel remarked uncertainly. "And that's why you arranged that voodoo ritual for me the other night?" he asked, realization dawning on him. Despite his cordial tone, contempt still coated his words.

"I didn't know if it would work. I'm not sure I even completely believed in it," Scully admitted. "But I thought it was a chance we couldn't pass up."

Daniel had been at death's door when his EKG went on the fritz, his heart rate spiking before abruptly flatlining. He was absolutely gone, and on Scully's insistence, he had been brought back, though not exactly in the state she wanted. A coma wasn't living, and there was slim chance that he'd pull out of it. So she turned to something only her sister Melissa would have seriously considered: a spiritual healing ceremony. And somehow or another, it had worked: Daniel was alive and well in front of her against all her expectations. Scully wondered if she had Melissa to thank for that.

"So you've turned your back on medicine because of these fantastical cases you investigate?" He was clearly disappointed, seeing her as a turncoat to the cause. His prized student of all people! It was a blow to his immense ego at how she had abandoned his ways. Scully knew he would take it personally, so she quickly sought to calm him.

"Far from it, Daniel," Scully quickly replied. "I try to bring the keen eye of science and rational logic to the cases we investigate."

"Scully been nothing but pragmatic and realistically-minded since we were partnered," Mulder intervened. "She's always reigning in my purportedly obtuse theories. I've always just assumed that I'm more imaginative than she is." He smiled teasingly. While Scully was happy to see that he'd regained his sense of humor, Mulder's quip couldn't have been more ill-timed. Daniel could be hot-headed, especially when he thought someone was making light of what he considered a serious matter. And he was obviously less than pleased with Scully's change of character over the last decade. That might be just the thing to push him over the edge. She prepared for the onslaught.

" _You_ filled her head with this claptrap?" he said to Mulder. "These wild fantasies that sound like the drug-induced ravings of an addict?" Mulder's eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected accusation. Scully's stern gaze met his for a brief moment. She hoped he could keep his cool; it was a toss-up with Mulder.

"While I believe in the existence of the paranormal, I've not forced my beliefs on Scully," Mulder said in his neutral monotone. "Her thoughts have always been her own." Daniel chuckled cynically.

"And this business of calling her 'Scully.' You don't even have the respect to call her by her given name? Do you think that low of her?" Daniel had transformed into his possessive, bull-headed self. He had assessed Mulder as a threat and was going on the offensive. One glance at Mulder told her he was starting to get angry, too. Scully wanted to prevent any big, explosive argument from happening. As Mulder opened his mouth to reply, she quickly cut him off.

"Daniel," she said, "Mulder and I have nothing but respect toward one another. He and I decided long ago that we would refer to each other by our surnames, and it's not for lack of respect."

She decided against explaining to him that Mulder had decided to call her "Scully" within minutes of meeting her, most likely an attempt to get under her skin since he supposed her to be spying on him on behalf of nefarious shadow-people lurking in the FBI. Nor did she feel the need to note that Mulder specifically requested he call her by his surname because of the contempt he felt towards his own given name. Other women were given leave to call him "Fox," though: his mother, _her_ mother, past loves like Phoebe Greene and Diana Fowley. Only she was exempt from that list, and Scully couldn't help but wonder why. Was it to ensure that they were placed on equal ground as partners-that neither of them was held above the other? Was it because he never felt he fit his first name-and while he was alright with others knowing him by "Fox," he wanted Scully to know his true self as "Mulder," his preferred name?

Daniel Waterston's voice sliced through her contemplations.

"Though he obviously considers you a weak, malleable woman given the nonsense he's fed to you!" he countered in response to her previous comments. "I find that nothing but disrespectful! What happened to the brilliant, rational Dana of years past? The one that I taught all those years ago?"

"She is _still_ the analytical, level-headed Dana Scully," interjected Mulder icily before Scully had a chance to reply. "She goes unparalleled as a scientist, an investigator, and an individual. In my twelve years as an agent for the FBI and forty years of living, I have never met a woman more capable than Dana." Scully picked up on Mulder's distinctive use of her first name. She ventured he did so because of Daniel's prior critique, a sort of verbal counter to Daniel's scathing words. "She has risked life and limb on numerous occasions in my incessant pursuit of the truth; she has sacrificed more than anyone humanely should in my quest; and she has saved my life in more ways than one. So I ask you, Dr. Waterston, to refrain from passing any sort of judgment on the relationship between me and my partner because it's ultimately none of your damn business!"

Mulder breathed deeply, spun away from the hospital bed, and ran a hand over his face. Scully risked a glance at Daniel. His mouth was agape once again. Being such an experienced, well-respected man in the medical field, he was not in the least bit accustomed to being reproached. More often than not, his word was law and no one sought to start a dispute with him. That was not the case with Mulder, though.

Scully gave Daniel a moment to recompose himself and stepped over to her partner. As she drew near, she placed a hand on his shoulder. She was still astounded by the vehemence of his defense of her, but genuinely touched by it.

"Are you alright?" she asked in a hushed whisper, ensuring they were turned away from Daniel's bed. Mulder pulled at his face.

"I shouldn't have overreacted like that," he stated in response. "That was inappropriate of me."

"It's fine, Mulder," Scully soothed. "I think it's something Daniel needed to hear—though perhaps not in that manner. Take a breath. Maybe go get some coffee? I'll talk to him." He nodded automatically.

"I'll be back in 10 minutes?" She smiled encouragingly.

"Alright." Without so much as a glance in Daniel's direction, Mulder strode from the private room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Scully watched him go before turning back to her old mentor. He looked at her stunned.

"You deal with that sort of unrestrained brutality on a daily basis?" he asked her. She wandered back toward his bedside.

"Only when he's angry—which isn't all that often. But I've been just as angry before, too."

"That man is insane, Dana," Daniel replied unhesitatingly. "He is mentally unstable and dangerous. To believe in the validity of the science fiction he was spewing—it means he is lost in a world of fantasy and cannot separate the figments of his imagination from reality."

"You don't know how many times I've heard that before," Scully sighed. "But you're wrong, Daniel."

"Dana," he said sternly, looking her in the eye. "That man could hurt you." She shook her head.

"He would never hurt me."

"Then you're in denial," Daniel replied without a hint of compassion. "Because that man is violently dangerous and is capable of causing severe harm."

"He is only dangerous when what he cares for is put at risk," Scully replied coolly. "Mulder is a man of passion, perhaps even the personification of it. He believes so fervently that the whole rest of the world melts away. To affront his beliefs is to put him on the warpath." Daniel stared at her dubiously.

"So you constitute as one of his beliefs then? Given the ferocity in which he defended you?" Scully took a moment to consider the obscure question. She remembered Mulder once telling her that the truth was in her, but that was a circumstantial statement considering she had miraculously escaped a mass genocide on a bridge with no memory of the event. Mulder had been absolutely relieved when he found she had survived the attack. He couldn't help but grin.

"Mulder is my partner," Scully eventually replied to Daniel's query, deciding to avoid the question entirely. "Of seven years, might I remind you. He and I are naturally protective of one another. He would stop at nothing to save me should I be in danger." She thought back to his reckless rescue of her in Antarctica. Her memories of the event were hazy since she was constantly falling in and out of consciousness, but she remembered his presence.

"And that occurs often, I take it?" Daniel pressed, concern coming to his eyes. Scully smiled ambiguously.

"More than you would care to know." Daniel was quiet for a moment, contemplating her.

"Then let me take you away from that danger, Dana," he said finally. Scully's brows flew upward in alarm.

"I don't need saving, Daniel."

"If what you say is true, it seems you do," Daniel said simply. "If Fox Mulder is allowed to save you again and again, why can't I rescue you once and for all?" Scully's lips slowly parted in stunned silence, but she knew her answer to that question.

"Because it's not what I want." She shook her head as the words quietly slipped from her. Daniel looked at her incredulously, as if he could hardly believe his ears.

"You don't want an escape from this nonsensical life you lead? From your maddened partner? Dana, I could reacquaint you with the world of modern medicine. Your sharp mind and steady hands could be such a boon to any prestigious hospital. There is so much good you could do!" He grew more enthusiastic as he spoke, hoping to win her over. Scully's mouth set in a frown.

"I do good now, Daniel. I save _lives_. It may not be through typical means or procedures, but they are still lives. People that might have well been buried and forgotten if it weren't for Mulder's tenacity. While I don't share his passion for the paranormal, I _do_ share his passion for the work. I wouldn't trade it for anything." Daniel's frowned thoughtfully and let out a low chuckle.

"Funny words coming from a woman who just told me the other day that she didn't know what she wanted in life. Now you suddenly have all the answers?"

"I've had a few days to reevaluate my choices," Scully replied smoothly, yet firmly, "and I think I'm happy where I am." Daniel grunted.

"And it's in the FBI? With Fox Mulder? Hunting out the paranormal and the monsters that lurk under the bed?" Scully nodded stoically, unwilling to give him the chance to criticize her life choices further. "It's a sorry mistake if you ask me, Dana. I could give you so much more." The sentence sounded altogether normal to her ear, but there was a note of peculiarity. Something wasn't cohesive, and it caught Scully's attention. Her brows knit together.

"'Give me more'?" she echoed. "More than who? Or what?"

"That partner of yours."

"Mulder?" she clarified unnecessarily, her brows shooting upward in defiance of her otherwise unchanged expression.

"It's the only logical reason I can guess why you'd bring him here today," Daniel replied indifferently. "To show that he is more worthy of you than me." Scully sighed; it was the exact interpretation of the situation she feared Daniel would have; Mulder had held the same fear, and he was unwilling to involve himself in a figurative pissing match over Scully.

"You misinterpret my intention, Daniel."

"Do I?" came his sarcastic response. "Surely that's why any woman forces two men of her past to meet under unusual circumstances. It's a ploy to incite jealousy and viciousness between the pair as the woman looks on fondly, commending herself on her wit and cleverness. As the confrontation draws to a close, she picks the victor and goes off with him whilst leaving the loser in the dust. An evolved form of some territorial mating ritual, if you ask me." It was Scully's turn for her mouth to fall open.

He was angry and he was hurt, so he was intentionally saying careless, heartless things in attempt to harm her in return. And Daniel was always quick to criticize. As a medical student, Scully had learned to cling adamantly to his words of praise; she grew to crave his approval, and she fell for him in those moments when he would dote upon her because it showed her that she had done right.

A decade later, Scully wasn't about to be deterred by his harsh words.

"You think me capable of such underhanded tactics?" She leaned toward him and grasped him firmly by the arm. "Daniel, I want you to move on. You said the other day that I'm what you live for. Well, I want you to live for yourself—or if you're incapable of that—for Maggie. _That's_ why I brought Mulder here." He quirked a bushy, gray eyebrow at her.

"To show you have moved past me over the last decade?" She shifted her hand to take his in her own.

"To show you that living for me is futile. The 'me' you're living for is ten years gone, Daniel. I'm what's become of her, and I'm happy where I am." There was a soft knock on the door. Mulder poked his head in.

"Don't mean to interrupt," he deadpanned, looking between the two. Scully noticed his gaze settle on their conjoined hands. Daniel coughed uncomfortably.

"Come in, Fox," he beckoned. Mulder shuffled in, carrying two styrofoam cups in one hand. He consciously shut the door behind him and walked up to Daniel's bedside.

"I'm not sure if you're cleared to drink this," he began, setting one of the cups on a table near Daniel, "but I thought I'd take my chances." He fished a couple packets of sugar and single-serving creamer containers from his jacket pocket and set them beside the coffee. It was an obscure gesture, but Scully saw it for what it was. Mulder was attempting to make up for his earlier behavior, and the only thing he could think to do was fetch the elder man coffee.

"And yours," he continued, turning to Scully and handing her the second cup. "One cream, no sugar—just as you take it." She slipped her hand from Daniel's to take the proffered cup. The sloshing liquid inside was piping hot; she felt the heat emanating through the styrofoam. "I should warn you both: drink it now and you risk burning your taste buds clean off; drink it later and it'll taste like sludge out of _The Swamp Thing_." Scully popped the lid of her cup off and perfunctorily blew against the steaming drink.

"Thank you, Mulder," she said, tempting a sip. She felt the scalding heat against her lips and quickly swallowed it down. The heat seared its way down her esophagus and landed in the pit of her stomach. She sputtered for a moment and tapped at her chest, hoping the burning sensation would fade away quickly. Mulder glanced at her with the slightest hint of amusement reaching his eyes; she glared in response, and he only grinned back. Once she was able to breathe properly again, she finally noted an aftertaste of watered down cardboard. She saw Daniel fiddle with the lid to his own cup. "Perhaps wait for a few moments to let it cool, Daniel," she recommended hastily. "It's a bit hot."

"I tried to warn you, Scully," Mulder grinned boyishly. Daniel managed to remove the lid and set it beside his steaming cup. He returned his gaze to Mulder.

"Well, thank you for the gesture, Fox." Mulder's grin slipped away as he regarded the elder man.

"You're welcome, sir." He hesitated for a brief moment. "I hope you'll forgive me my previous outburst." Daniel observed him solemnly.

"I'm unsure I can do that," he said after a pause. His pride had been significantly wounded. "To be blunt, I question whether you endanger Dana. She's said her piece to defend you, but I'm uncertain it can be trusted." Scully hadn't expected Daniel to press the issue, but then again, Daniel was just as stubborn—if not more-so—than Mulder.

"I can sympathize with your concern," Mulder began, keeping his eyes pinned to Daniel unwaveringly. "As I said before, Scully has sacrificed much in remaining as my partner—on both a professional and private level. Despite my own reservations and pleadings with her to abandon me to my cause," he broke contact with Daniel and looked to her, "she has remained steadfast in her determination to stand by me." For the first time all afternoon, Daniel looked mildly impressed. Mulder's gaze returned to him. The profiler in him was at work and he was able to pick up on Daniel's thoughts. "Yes, Dr. Waterston, though I could probably be diagnosed as a narcissistic egomaniac with a penchant for the paranormal, I am aware of the dangers my theories and my very presence pose to Scully. And I would not have her harmed or killed because of me." Pain flashed across Mulder's face. Daniel regarded the younger man at his bedside.

"If you're so afraid, then let Dana come with me." Scully watched as Mulder's teeth clenched together and he breathed heavily through his nose.

"You have no right, Daniel," she warned, rounding on her former lover. He didn't flinch or react in any way; he turned to her and spoke with complete calmness.

"Dana, it seems Fox and I can at least agree on this. We want what's best for your well-being and future. If neither of us want to see you harmed, have we no right to keep you from leaping unprepared into danger?"

"Not when it's my decision to make," she replied icily. Her eyes slipped from Daniel's concerned ones to Mulder's blank ones. She sensed a fidgety nervousness in his stance, but his eyes were devoid of anything, and that scared Scully. Was he actually considering Daniel's offer? A hint of the previous evening's darkness bled through the guise, and Scully realized he _was_ debating whether to side with Daniel or not.

"Mulder..." she voiced quietly. His eyes raised and met hers. Fear suddenly swam within them, and Scully's chest constricted. Was he really going to give her up? To give up _on_ her? That wasn't like Mulder; he _never_ gave up. And he never treated her as an object to be pawned off or traded. He knew the choice to go with Daniel wasn't his to make, but he was considering making it anyway. Something was wrong.

"No," she said stonily, staring at her partner.

"Scully..." he breathed, looking helpless.

"No, Mulder," she repeated. "It's my choice." That statement seemed to somewhat snap him out of his desperate mindset. She saw the minor flair of a rekindled fire in his eyes and he nodded once in affirmation. She returned to Daniel. "I appreciate the concern, Daniel, but I can take care of myself. And I can decide for myself, too." She looked between the two men to allow her next phrases to sink in. "I am remaining in the FBI, and I will continue as Agent Mulder's partner." Daniel frowned unhappily.

"It seems your mind is set, Dana."

"It is," she affirmed. "Meanwhile you, Daniel, need to remain in medicine and continue to push the boundaries of the medical field. But you also need to open your heart to Maggie. She's hurting, and she's been hurting for ten years. You owe it to your daughter."

Silence fell for a few moments.

"So that's it?" Daniel asked with finality. Scully opened her mouth, considering the myriad of answers she could offer to that question, but each one of them would just prolong the conversation, and she felt it was time to go.

"Goodbye, Daniel." She grasped his hand and gave it one solitary squeeze. As she turned and walked to the door, she brushed her hand against Mulder's shoulder. He offered a nod of farewell to the elder man before following her out.

Once she heard the distinct sound _click_ of the door shutting closed, she felt her emotional wall crumble some, at least insofar as she was willing to reach for Mulder's hand at her side without feeling the shame of impropriety. He responded to her touch, and curled his hand around hers as they wandered down the brightly lit hall.

She was still perturbed over his actions in the hospital room; they just weren't like him, but after breaking Daniel's heart for a second time, she needed a source of comfort. And that was Mulder for good or ill.

"Time to find Maggie," she reminded him.

"I saw her in the cafeteria earlier," Mulder murmured. "She sat apart from others. You're right in that she's hurting." He glanced over to her.

"I think I am, too, Mulder. What was that in there?" She peered up into his green eyes. He broke all contact from her—eyesight and touch. She continued to look up at him, though.

"Me wondering if you'd be better somewhere else," he finally answered.

"That's not your decision to make, Mulder," Scully countered. "We talked about that last night."

"I realize that," he nodded. "I guess Waterston makes a convincing argument." He smiled lightly down at her, the minor levity just reaching his eyes. She didn't return the gesture.

"Indeed he does," she sighed aggravatedly, punching the elevator call button.

* * *

The pair of agents stepped out into the waning afternoon sun. Mulder suddenly found himself free to breathe more easily. Hospitals were hardly his favorite place to visit given the frequency he found himself at one to either get himself patched up or to see a fellow agent or family member. They did good work and they performed miracles on a daily basis, but the icy, clinical feeling that permeated all hospitals always chilled him to the bone. Despite being a propagator of life, they always felt lifeless in and of themselves—unfeeling husks of buildings that worked like assembly lines, shipping patients in and out at a rapid rate to keep outpatient numbers high. Even the staff often felt like emotionless drones, though Mulder knew they likely felt more than anyone could guess. The highs and lows of recovery and degradation. It had to be a hard life, and it was certainly one Mulder could never see himself living.

They approached Scully's car. She had been aloof since leaving Maggie Waterston in the cafeteria a few minutes earlier. Scully was irritated with him. She wondered why he hadn't rallied to her defense at Waterston's offer to "protect" her. Mulder _had_ , after all, championed her earlier when Waterston had insulted her.

Yet he balked when it mattered most.

And that was only due to his own insecurities. Despite his desires to be with Scully in the last months of his life, he also wanted to continue hiding the truth from her, and she deserved more than that. Granted, she deserved more than Waterston, too, but wasn't he a better choice for her than Mulder? More stable, more secure; the man obviously loved her, and she had once loved him.

Mulder hadn't intended to hand Scully over to Waterston in some kind of old-timey exchange of goods. He simply wished that Scully would reconsider her choice in him. It would be better for them both in the long run. Of the two of them, she was the strong one, and she had the power to end their short-lived romance. Mulder wasn't able to give up what he had already attained. He was much too enamoured and narcissistic.

As they approached Scully's car, he rounded to the passenger side door as she slid the key into the driver's side lock. Mulder folded his arms on the hood of the car.

"Hey, Scully. Why don't I drive?" She regarded him behind her cool, blue eyes.

"Why?" she asked slowly, sounding suspicious.

"It was another tough day for you. Dealing with Waterston and all," he replied simply. She sighed and looked at him full on.

"What was tough, Mulder, was dealing with you. Honestly, what _was_ that back there? Last night you agree that what goes on in my life is my choice, then today you're trying to hand me off to Daniel."

"I was second guessing," Mulder replied cryptically.

"Second guessing my life, Mulder," Scully insisted. "Something you have no right to do." She looked over the hood at him, eyebrows raised in a typical Scully mannerism he had grown so accustomed to.

"You're right," he acceded, finding himself unwilling to push the issue. He didn't want his last months filled with plaguing questions and suspicious glances; if he was going to keep his secret from her, he would enjoy what he had left of life.

"Now that's something I don't hear every day. You're sure you're okay, Mulder?" The suspicious nature had returned to her tone. He plastered on a grin, surprised at how close her question hit home.

"Give me the keys." She contemplated him for a moment, tilting her head to one side before tossing the keys over to him. They both circled the car to the opposite doors and slid in. Mulder slipped the key into the ignition, but refrained from turning the key. He looked over at his partner.

"You know you _are_ right, Scully. I can't force you into any situation—with Waterston, with someone else. I just wonder if I'm the right choice for you." She deserved to know at least that much of his reason for acting as he did. And he wanted to give her one last chance to break it off "You have a chance for a normal life with that white picket fence and a dog. Whatever you could want, and I can't offer you that." Scully blue eyes stared into his own.

"Where is this coming from, Mulder?" she asked worriedly. "I mean, first last night and now today." Her eyes flickered over his face as she tried to read him. Normally he wore his heart on his sleeve, but in this rare case, he kept it buried down deep. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he lied easily, slipping on a lopsided smile for good measure. "I haven't been this...close to someone in a long while," he added in measured breaths, dropping his head to stare mindlessly at his lap. "I guess I want to make sure you know what you're getting into." His head swung up to meet her eyes again. "I don't really have the best track record for relationships." Scully chuckled inaudibly.

"And you think I do?" she returned, staring at him incredulously. She reached across the center console for his hand. "Mulder, if I'm here, then I want to be here. And after seven years of working with you, I _hope_ I know what I'm getting into."

"Then again, you never know what truths you might uncover," he replied teasingly, opting for his usual ploy of concealing his true emotions with a laid-back, carefree attitude.

It was there. It was said. She wasn't leaving him, and Mulder didn't have the heart to leave her.

 _I'm going to hell for this_ , he thought.

He slipped his hand from hers and flipped the ignition key. The engine turned over and rumbled to life.

"So where to, Scully? A spur-of-the moment cross country road trip maybe?" he asked, checking his rearview mirror and backing out.

"We've done enough road trips for a lifetime, Mulder," Scully replied. "I was thinking something a bit closer to home. How about dinner and a movie?"

"Ooh," he crooned, easily falling back into routine. "If you're looking to ask me on a first date, Scully, you can do better than that!" She rolled her eyes with a smile.

"There's a strip mall with a Hollywood Video near my place, and there's a liquor store just around the corner. You get a six-pack, and I'll rent a movie. After the feature presentation, I'll give you a home-cooked meal. Would that make us even for today?" She gestured back to the hospital building they were slowly leaving behind them.

"Nah, Scully. You don't owe me anything," Mulder disagreed, once again considering his predicament. When she had nearly succumbed to her cancer, he had been willing to go to hell and back so long as she miraculously survived. There was no doubt in his mind that she would be willing to do the same if she learned of his diagnosis. And he didn't want to put her through that. He didn't want her to make any exorbitant effort on his part because it would all be for naught soon enough.

"Fine," she consented with a nod. "Then how about just a relaxing afternoon after a strenuous evening and morning?"

"'Strenuous'?" Mulder repeated. He looked at her mischievously out of the corner of his eye. "Not the word I'd use to describe last night."

"Shut up, Mulder," she chided, trying to keep a straight face.

"It's tempting, Scully," he replied easily, "but what happened to your paperwork?"

"There'll be time for that in the evening," she countered coolly. "And truth be told, I am not in the right mental state for filing overdue reports."

"Try telling that to Skinner tomorrow."

"It'll get done," she insisted. "And you owe Skinner your England report tomorrow anyway."

"Touché, Scully," Mulder drawled, turning in the direction of Georgetown.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** _In what I consider an early Christmas gift, I have a new chapter for_ Keeping Grounded. _I consider it a Christmas gift because it comes fresh off the heels of the first chapter of my Christmas X-Files story,_ The Meaning of Christmas. _If you're in the mood for something a little lighter than this piece, please go give it a gander!_

 _And for the meantime, while I'll try to work on both stories, I might focus on_ The Meaning of Christmas _a bit more over the next few weeks considering it's the holiday season. I have no intention of abandoning this story, so fear not! And if there is a bit more delay between chapters, I apologize whole-heartedly!_

 _Finally, sharp readers might notice that I pepper my chapters with references to other_ X-Files _episodes or pop culture elements. For the fun of it, I've included a list of references made in this chapter alone at the conclusion of the chapter. Whenever I reference anything pertaining to pop culture, I always ensure that it fits into the timeframe of_ The X-Files _._

* * *

Gripping the Hollywood Video rental tape in one hand, Scully fingered through her keys with the other before slipping the appropriate one into the front door of apartment number five. The door swung to, and she stepped in with Mulder at her heels. He clutched a laden brown paper bag, no doubt carrying his alcohol of choice for their movie session. She had asked him what he bought on the drive home, but he was stubborn and determined to surprise her. That could either be a very good or a very bad thing.

Scully tossed the VHS onto her couch and slipped out of her coat. Mulder meandered to the dining table, set down his prized alcohol, and shrugged out of his jacket before handing it off to her.

"I can't say I have much available, but have any preferences for dinner?" she asked as she hung both coats in the closet and wandered back toward the kitchen. Mulder stood at the table tapping his fingers errantly at the top of the brown paper bag.

"Anything you have is better than what's in my fridge," he smiled cheekily. Scully smirked.

"You mean the two months old milk and a half eaten ham sandwich?"

"I don't see the point of stuffing a fridge full of food," he shrugged. "You and I are out of town about once a week anyway." She looked at him comically.

"You never want to come home and have an actual warm-cooked meal? Something as simple as pasta even?"

"If I want something warm, I make coffee. Otherwise water and sunflower seeds suit me just fine." He ceased his drumming for a moment. "I'm very low maintenance," he added off-handedly. She rolled her eyes.

"So you say, Mulder, but if I'm going to cook for you, you have to do some of the work." She slipped a medium-sized serrated knife from a nearby knife block. "Do you know how to use a knife?" She waved it at him.

"Scully," Mulder replied with a lackadaisical smile, "I'm entrusted with a government-issued side-arm on a daily basis. I think I should be qualified to handle a kitchen knife. Plus, I use this quite frequently." He pulled a Swedish army knife from his pocket, flipped it open to reveal the little utility knife, and waved it back at her in return.

"That does not require the same degree of precision and care as this," Scully pointed out.

"So says the woman with the medical degree who spends all live long day poking at corpses." He pocketed his Swedish army knife and plucked the kitchen knife from her hands, twirling it between his fingers. "You realize that knives were among the earliest tools created and used by primitive man. It's an implement that can be used for a myriad of purposes ranging from everyday needs like scavenging for food or cutting down wood for a shelter to digging holes by using the broadside of the knife like a makeshift spade. Not to mention its defensive capabilities in the event of an attack by an enemy or rampant wildlife." He gripped the knife by the handle, pointing the bladed end down in a typically aggressive stance. "How to use such a tool is practically written into our genetic make-up." He returned to twirling the knife in his hands.

"And yet we have the Darwin Awards," Scully intoned to herself, taking back the utensil and sliding it back in its slot on the knife block.

"What's that, Scully?" She turned to her partner, leaning back against her kitchen counter and bracing her position by spreading her arms out to grip the counter edges behind her.

"I just want to ensure there will be no mishaps resulting in cut off appendages and further hospital visits. I might be a medical doctor, but I can't spirit a digit back onto a hand."

"A needle and thread would do just as easily," Mulder offered teasingly.

"Still something I'd like to avoid," Scully nodded curtly. She turned and checked her fridge. "Alright, looks like I have some broccoli, tomatoes, lettuce. Got some chicken, ground beef." She turned back to her partner. "Any of that interesting you?"

"Honestly, I'm fine with whatever, Scully. I don't mean to empty your fridge for all of one meal, and so long as it's not tofu, I'll eat it." She arched an eyebrow at him.

"Lucky you. I'm fresh out of tofu." He smiled appreciatively. She turned about and crossed her arms. "How about tacos? There's the ground beef, tomatoes, lettuce. I think I have some cheese in there."

"Sounds muy bueno, Seniorita Scully," he drawled in his American accent, butchering the Spanish language for all it was worth. Scully wrinkled her nose. Who knew one of the most beautiful languages of the modern world could sound so bastardized? And only Mulder would find the glee in doing so.

He grinned impishly, like a little boy in a school yard who was purposefully antagonizing a teacher. Although to some extent, that was Mulder to a tee. While he was brilliant and confident and could be undeniably considerate and affectionate at times, he was an overgrown boy at heart, loving to tease people and trip them up for his own amusement. And it was one of the reasons why Scully loved seeing Mulder on almost a daily basis. Cases could be stressful or personal demons could encroach on daily life, but she could always count on Mulder to come up with a light-hearted quip to ease the tension and bring things back down to a manageable level.

Peers and other agents at the Bureau found Mulder's brand of humor tiring, but Scully always found it wickedly endearing. Ever since he felt the need to toy with Tom Colton by mentioning Reticulans and their love of human livers on the Tooms case. Colton had been baffled and was seriously questioning Mulder's sanity, but Scully saw through his ploy immediately. Poking and prodding skeptics and non-believers alike with over embellished theories on the existence of extraterrestrials solely for the purpose of pushing their buttons and agitating them—especially since he was well aware that they wouldn't even attempt to believe him had he presented them with his true theories, implausible as they were—was a favorite pastime of his.

And yet he never tried that little game with her. He had always talked to her straight, perhaps sensing—skeptic though she was—that she would actually listen to him and try to hear him out. As a whole, Mulder interacted with her on an entirely different plane than he did with anyone else—whether his late parents or peers. He was real and intimate with her—sometimes strikingly so. He didn't hold back; what she saw with Mulder was what she got—goofball humor and all. It was something Scully sometimes forgot to really appreciate about her partner, but she couldn't see herself going through life without it.

Their innate ability to understand one another with just a look or comfort one another with a simple touch. It was the sort of relationship that most partners—whether professional or otherwise—dreamed of, and it was as natural as breathing for the two of them. And the scary part was that achieving a relationship of that level took hardly any effort on either of their parts. It just was. And it came about so quickly—just within months of knowing one another.

Scully recalled the first real test of their relationship early in their assigned partnership—in a remote ice core research station in Alaska. Six strangers trapped in a claustrophobic, ice-ridden location with a millennia-old, parasitic life form while a snowstorm bared down on them. It was straight out of a horror movie, and paranoia was rampant. Even with the death of their pilot, depleting their total number to five, they tried to keep level-headed, but the fear was there. Who of them was infected if any even were? With the death of another of their party, though, that ticking time bomb of bone-chilling fear exploded into animalistic aggression.

She and Mulder found themselves looking down the barrel of each other's guns, and he was the first to relent and lower his firearm. Scully didn't think she would have found the courage to do so first; every instinct she possessed told her to keep her side-arm trained on him—that he could be infected. It was a highly tense situation and both were at the risk of being suddenly shot. Yet Mulder had the presence of mind to look her in the eyes, see the crazed paranoia-induced terror residing there, and seek to subdue it. Scully felt that was ultimately why Mulder lowered his gun; he hated the idea of her fearing him. Anyone else, sure, but not her: the only one who ever gave him a chance. Scully recalled him relaxing so suddenly, calming in just an instant; cooperating and trusting in her fully despite the risk. It was almost unnerving to see a man at the height of an adrenaline rush suddenly taper off and regain control. Maybe it was because of the ease in which he did it.

And later when they were both temporarily locked away in the storage closet when each of them were still intently wary of the other, he surprised her again. Despite whispering his desire to trust Scully, she was still on edge and unwilling to give him a possible advantage over her. She had never planned on turning her back to him. And so he did so first, fearlessly turning around and opening his shirt collar so she could check for signs of possible infection. When it came to Mulder's turn to check her, Scully hadn't been expecting it. She gasped as he grasped her by the shoulders and drew her back to him. But despite the initial tense contact, his touch was gentle, slowly dipping back her shirt color and brushing a few loose strands of hair away before placing his palm to the nape of her neck and feeling for any contusions. He repeated the action down her back some, applying minute amounts of pressure with each movement.

Despite the heightened, unusual circumstances, that had marked the first time they touched one another in a more intimate manner, groping necks and running fingers along upper backs—and all in search of an alien organism of all things.

Nonetheless, Scully believed that outing had cemented their relationship. To come so close to killing one another then unexpectedly finding the strength to trust one another instead; it was unheard of. It was so _them_. That excursion exemplified the totality of their relationship as it came to progress over their seven year partnership: heightened mistrust morphing into intense codependence and unshakeable conviction. A wholly intimate and intuitive sense of confidence with the power to penetrate any barrier that might come between them.

Even one so small as Scully's dining room table. Her bright blue eyes stared into his teasing green ones. As she looked at him, the color of his eyes softened, taking on a gray green. Almost a stormy green; they exuded the strength and passion she had come to rely on so heavily, but also intense serenity. His grin relaxed into a contented smile, his fingers moving to lightly drum against the table. A matching smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Keeping her eyes locked on his, she skirted around the table and rest a hand on his arm, lightly tugging at it. Mulder conceded, ceasing his repetitive drumming and turned to her while sustaining the same contented smile. Maintaining her grip on his arm, she pulled him towards her and brushed his lips against his. She felt the muscle in his arm throb as sinews and joints tensed, but he didn't change his stance. After a few moments, she broke the kiss. He smiled amusedly, his eyes searching her face, trying to read her.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"Come on, Mulder," she urged lightly, tugging at his arm once more. "Put away the beer, grab us a couple of bottles, and let's get the movie started." She crossed over into the living room, glancing back to see his stunned, but pleased expression.

"You _do_ always keep me guessing," she heard him mutter as he walked over to the fridge and busied himself there.

Scully plopped down on the couch and picked up the movie from the cushion next to her. Mulder wandered over with a bottle opener and the two requested bottles, setting one in front of her as he sat down. Scully examined the bottle.

"Good choice," she complimented, observing the Shiner Bock label on the bottle. "No wonder you were keeping it a surprise."

"What can I tell you, Scully?" Mulder replied with a smile as he righted the bottle opener. "I have taste." Scully wandered over to her VCR, offering him an appreciative look over her shoulder. "So what fine film did you rent for our viewing pleasure?" Mulder asked as he pried the bottle caps off the beer bottles. Scully popped open the movie case and slipped the VHS into the VCR. "I'm half expecting _The Princess Bride_ or something." He took a drink from his bottle. Scully glanced over at him amusedly from her crouched position in front of the TV.

"Close," she replied, tossing the empty movie case to him. "Same actor." Mulder glanced at the movie rental insert.

" _Robin Hood: Men in Tights_ ," he read. Scully collapsed on the couch beside him, picked up her beer, and began to fiddle with the remote. "Just the thing to catch your interest, eh, Scully? Roguish heroes with hearts of gold dressed in tight-fitting clothing." Scully glanced at Mulder over her beer as she took a swig.

"Or I wanted to watch a comedy movie. I heard it's good, and I thought it might be up your alley. It's Mel Brooks. _Blazing Saddles_ , _Young Frankenstein_."

"Right," Mulder nodded with a wry smile. "Ever the selfless Dana Scully."

"Shut up, Mulder," Scully rolled her eyes, punching the play button on the remote. The movie kicked in, beginning with its customary trailers and previews. She took another gulp of beer. "Hmm," she muttered as she swallowed. "Can you close the window blinds? There's a bit of glare on the screen." Mulder promptly stood up and turned to Scully.

"As you wish," he said with a small bow before crossing over to the windows.

"Should I be flattered that I'm Buttercup?" Scully asked curiously.

"Well, you could just be smitten with the mysterious yet alluring Dread Pirate Roberts." As he pulled the blinds closed, he glanced back at Scully and waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"I'm surprised at you," she replied, ignoring his shameless attempt to flirt. "It's not of your...favored genre." Mulder shrugged and settled back down beside her.

"It was a couple years ago. I couldn't sleep, and it was late." He glanced at the TV as the movie previews rolled on. "I went out to a Blockbuster or a Hollywood Video or whatever it was, grabbed the first thing I saw on the shelf."

"And it was _The_ _Princess Bride_?" Scully about laughed, taking a draft from her beer.

"I actually watched most of it," Mulder grinned. "Fell asleep as they were just about to enter the castle and try to rescue Buttercup."

"Wow!" Scully replied. "Mulder watching something that isn't sports-related or rated NC-17," she joked. He swatted her lightly on the arm.

"Hey, it had some athleticism!" he retorted. "It had André the Giant."

"I don't think André was actually climbing cliff sides and hurling boulders, though," countered Scully.

"He could have been! How are we to know? The guy was practically 7 feet tall and strong as an ox." Mulder flexed his own muscles as if to impress her. Scully shrugged with a chuckle.

"Believe what you want, Mulder. I'm just going to sit here and watch _this_ movie."

"You mean ogle at poor Robin Hood," Mulder teased.

"Well, I give you permission to drool over Maid Marian or whichever sexy lady is sure to cross the screen." Mulder feigned hurt as the last of the previews was wrapping up.

"Really, Scully? You think me that lewd?" Scully turned to Mulder with an incredulous look.

"So says the man with the biggest triple-X collection I've ever known."

"That's different, Scully," he waved off her assertion. "That's a hobby. Something that numbs the mind."

"While it excites other parts?"

"A favorable side effect," he explained nonchalantly.

"And you don't degrade into a grunting Neanderthal when you see the women on those tapes?" Scully pressed.

"Buxom blondes aren't really my type." Scully quirked an eyebrow at him, but he smiled back smoothly.

"Uh-huh," Scully nodded distrustfully. She glanced at the TV; the opening credits were starting. Suddenly the tape stuttered to a stop, leaving pixelated bars over the footage as the image shivered. She turned to her partner who was eyeing her from across the couch, remote in hand with his thumb poised over the pause button.

"Come here, Scully," he said, reaching a hand over and beckoning her.

"What?" she said uncertainly, watching him warily.

"Come here," he repeated, an amused smile coming to his lips. While honestly considering openly refusing his request, Scully found herself shuffling over on the couch. Mulder lazily crossed his arms, seemingly studying her as she slid across the cushions, eventually stopping beside him. He leaned into her with a mischievous smile, turning his head so his lips hovered just beyond her ear.

"Have I ever told you how wildly attracted I am to red-heads?" he murmured, punching the play button on the remote and allowing the movie to resume.

* * *

 **References:**

Hollywood Video/Blockbuster - two movie/game rental chains in the US existing from the '80s until 2010 and 2013, respectively.

The Darwin Awards - a type of fictional award that spawned a book series in 2000 concerning the stupidest ways people have accidentally killed themselves; it's a reference to Charles Darwin and his _On the Origin of Species_ , specifically the theory of natural selection in that the weaker of a given species tend to die before the stronger members.

"You do always keep me guessing." - a reference to Mulder's statement that Scully always surprises him in Season 7 Episode 14's "Theef." Specifically, a form of the line is uttered three times in the episode: Mulder initially states, "You see that, Scully? You always keep me guessing." Later on Scully notes, "I'll always keep you guessing." And at the episode's end, Mulder says one last time to himself, "You do keep me guessing."

Shiner Bock beer - the beer drunk by Mulder and Scully on their "movie date" of _Caddyshack_ in Season 7 Episode 21's "Je Souhaite."

 _The Princess Bride_ (1987) and _Robin Hood: Men in Tights_ (1993) - two movies starring later _X-Files_ guest star Cary Elwes (as Brad Follmer in Season 9). _The Princess Bride_ is widely considered an American classic, and it is a fantasy romantic comedy of sorts with a quirky sense of humor and over-the-top love story.

"As you wish."/Buttercup/Dread Pirate Roberts - three references to _The Princess Bride_. Westley (Cary Elwes), a young farm boy, works for Buttercup (Robin Wright), a young country woman; whenever Buttercup asks anything of Westley, he always says "As you wish," before doing the task; many years later and after being engaged to the evil Prince Humberdinck, Buttercup is abducted by three outlaws, and a man dressed all in black, otherwise known as the Dread Pirate Roberts, daringly comes to her rescue.

André the Giant - a French professional wrestler for the World Wrestling Federation (WWF; now the WWE - World Wrestling Entertainment) from the '70s to the '90s; he had gigantism, causing him to reach a height of 7 ft. 4 in.; he was known for playing the giant, Fezzik, in _The Princess Bride_.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** _As a thank you to patient readers and in celebration of the new year, I wanted to release a new chapter!_

 _I'll warn you, though, it's a pretty serious chapter. I was in a very reflective mood when I wrote it and wanted to tackle some of the issues I had with The X-Files. Primarily story elements that had been glossed over that I thought should have been given more significance. Anyway, I always have fun writing verbal sparring matches between Mulder and Scully!_

 _If you're looking for more romance though, I promise it will return!_

* * *

"You know what we need, Scully?" Mulder asked, looking up from his empty dessert bowl and half finished cup of coffee. Scully regarded him over her own dishware, her chin resting in the palm of her hand while she leaned against the dining room table. Her brows raised in silent curiosity. "Some tunes," he concluded with a knowing nod.

"You want music, Mulder?" she asked sleepily, her eyes somewhat glassy and lidded after the long day.

"Of course," he replied, as if it were the obvious answer. "The key is to keep moving forward, Scully. Otherwise nothing would ever be accomplished. The pyramids wouldn't have been built; the process for the pasteurization of milk would never have been discovered; the moon landing would never have happened. If great men and women are out there attempting such feats, I can't be expected to sit here pensively musing over vanilla ice cream and lukewarm coffee." Scully stood to clear the table of dishes, an amused smile on her face.

"And music is your current calling?"

"When life gives you lemons, Scully," he replied wisely. "I do what I can with what I'm given, and in this case, that's a stereo." He stood from the table, stealing a glance at his partner. Rolling her eyes, she turned to the sink and tossed a dish towel over her shoulder. He grinned.

"Far be it from me to stop you," she responded, turning on the water to quickly wash the few dishes in front of her. Thankfully, tacos weren't such a messy meal requiring pots and pans galore. "You know where the stereo is," she added, pointing in the direction of an armoire near her front door. He began to cross into the living room.

"Oh," he called, startling Scully minutely from her menial task. Soap suds jumped from her hands to coat her face. She looked over to see him turn around to face her once more, though he continued to walk backwards to his nearby destination. "Forgot to thank the chef for the lovely meal."

"Yeah, yeah," she smirked, flicking a small glob of suds from her nose. "And there are some leftovers, too. I'll be sending that home with you so that you have something eatable in your fridge for a few days."

"You'll spoil me, Scully," he replied, turning back to the armoire and opening it wide. "Don't force me to make it a habit of coming here for weekly home-cooked meals." Scully laughed.

"You'd eat me out of house and home, Mulder."

"See what I mean?" he prodded, meeting her gaze across the expansive room. "Don't tempt me."

Scully slipped the last of the dishes in the drying rack, dried her hands on a dish towel, and meandered into her living room. Crossing her arms, she perched her hip against the edge of her couch. Mulder was rifling through the armoire, looking at her somewhat antiquated music collection primarily consisting of cassettes and a few CDs here and there.

"Oh... records," he noted with a wicked grin, pulling out a worn, dog-eared album cover from the depths of the cabinet. "Let's see what we have here," he said curiously, turning it so he could look at the artwork. "Hotel California. The Eagles." He glanced over his shoulder at his partner, holding up the record so she could see it. "You had good taste, Scully," he complimented with a smile. Scully covered her face with her hand, mildly embarrassed that Mulder had stumbled upon a favorite Christmas gift from her teenage years. She still got a kick out of listening to The Eagles—as one does when listening to a band from their youth—but if Mulder were able to find that sliver of her past, what else could he find buried in those depths? Meanwhile, he returned to the armoire and peered into it, searching for something. "Got a turn-table we can play this on?"

"It's on my 'to buy' list," she replied. Mulder clicked his tongue disappointedly and slipped the vinyl record back where he had found it.

"You got to step up, Scully," he critiqued facetiously. "Every audiophile needs a record player. How else are you going to listen to The King in style?" His words slurred into an Elvis Presley speech pattern as he mentioned his musical idol. Scully rolled her eyes and pursed her lips.

"Noted, Mulder. Thank you." Mulder suddenly snapped his fingers, starting as an idea struck him.

"That reminds me..." he began vaguely. "Now let's see if you have it." He dug into the armoire, his fingers dancing against cassette cases. Scully's eyebrows shot up and she tried in vain to look over her partner's slouched shoulders. Being as petite as she did not come with an advantage in this case. She sighed and opted to stare blankly at Mulder's back, waiting to hear his final music choice. A few seconds later, his back straightened as he held a single cassette case in his hand. "What do you know?" he mused aloud. "Color me surprised, Scully," he added, shooting a smile over his shoulder. She frowned. What on earth had he found in there? To give him that look of all things?

"What did you find, Mulder?" she asked in what she hoped sounded like an innocent tone.

"In a minute," he relayed, holding up a finger as he popped the cassette into the player. "Gotta find the right track." He flipped the plastic case around to view the song list and punched the "next track" button a few times. Once satisfied, he set the case back down. A quiet piano melody began, and Scully arched her brow in confusion, trying to pick out the song. Mulder spun the volume knob to turn it up as the vocalizations started. A rich, soulful female voice. Scully was dumbstruck and she showed it.

"Cher?" she blurted out in surprise. Mulder spread his arms wide with a grin.

"What's wrong with Cher, Scully?" She blinked wildly for a moment.

"It's just the last thing I expected from you, Mulder. And why this song?" she added, realizing it was Cher's wildly popular cover of Marc Cohn's "Walking in Memphis." Mulder pulled an exaggerated frown and shook his head.

"I can't tell you, Scully. It's just the song that struck me." He began tapping his foot to the percussion beat and bopping to the music. "Though I'll say I didn't expect you to own this album in a million years."

"It was a gift from a friend," she admitted with a frown of her own. She'd never expected to actually listen to the tape. The song had been on the radio constantly over the last few years. Mulder waved off the explanation.

"Well, gift or not—come on, Scully." He held out his hand and beckoned her with his customary lopsided smile. Scully's eyes widened and she hastily shook her head.

"You didn't say anything about dancing, Mulder."

"What do you expect us to do with music playing?" he replied with an incredulous chuckle. "Stare demurely at the wall? Now, come on." He beckoned again. With a sigh and conceding smile, she offered her hand. Mulder took it and fluidly spun her into his arms, immediately resituating his hands: one on her waist and the other clasping her hand to his. Scully wrapped her free arm around his back as they swayed to the beat.

"I must say, Mulder, you surprise me," Scully remarked up to her partner.

"What?" he chuckled, meeting her blue eyes.

"This doesn't seem like the sort of thing you would do," she stated plainly.

"Are you saying a man can't listen to Cher without fear of ridicule?"

"I hardly listen to Cher without fear of ridicule," Scully returned mockingly. "At least not since that case in Indiana..." She struggled to remember the particulars of the case. "You know, the one with the culprit who absolutely loved Cher..."

"The Great Mutato," Mulder offered.

"Yeah," Scully nodded. "It's a wonder I couldn't remember his name..."

"And I wonder what happened to him," Mulder mused as the tape switched to the next track. He and Scully continued to sway to the beat.

"Well," Scully began, shutting her eyes in concentration as she thought back, "the closing report stated he was tried and convicted of multiple counts of breaking and entering, assault, and rape. His brother, the mad doctor, was convicted for first-degree murder and illegal human experimentation in the field of genetics."

"Mutato wasn't such a bad guy," Mulder said with a frown. Scully's brows shot up incredulously.

"Mulder," she pressed, "he drugged and raped at least two women. Not to mention drugging us."

"His father drugged us, Scully," Mulder corrected.

"The point still stands. He raped two women in the attempt to find a mate."

"He was attempting to fulfill a natural imperative found in all species, Scully. The necessity to procreate—without which every species on this earth would quickly become extinct."

"But to resort to rape?" Scully questioned, not buying into Mulder's argument.

"He was the low man on the totem pole," he answered. "An abnormal—potentially hideous—creature who would undoubtedly have been eliminated from the genetic tree of every species through the Darwinian process of natural selection, or what Herbert Spencer called survival of the fittest. That is, except by the human race. We're a species that supports the propagation of all characteristics—whether they would prove beneficial or detrimental in the human evolutionary chain."

"If you're insinuating we should recommence research into the practice of eugenic policies, Mulder—"

"That's not what I'm saying at all, Scully." He shook his head with a light smile, quickly becoming invested in the battle of words with Scully. "I'm saying that the Great Mutato had no choice but to look to alternative means to produce offspring. Being of lesser genetic muster than the common, everyday man would put him at a significant disadvantage in finding a mate. And while we live in a society which calls for equality and supports a stance of 'all lives matter,' those with defective or absent key characteristics are often overlooked in favor of those with more favorable qualities."

"But that's not true in every case," Scully countered. "There are plenty out there suffering from debilitating illnesses or disabilities who have families. They aren't all abandoned as lost causes or burdens on society."

"Ah," Mulder said with a sly smile, "but very few—if any—are quite as afflicted as the Great Mutato."

"Explain," Scully requested, eyeing her partner doubtfully.

"The Great Mutato was not born in any sense of the word. He was the result of his brother's genetic experimentations. That makes him distinctly inhuman, and therefore he is the sole creature of his specific species."

"Yes," Scully agreed, drawing out the affirmative. "And that's why his father—or rather, his adoptive father—was attempting to find a mate for him."

"So don't you see, Scully?" Mulder grinned as they continued to dance. She shook her head. "As the only of his species, we—as members of the human race—have no right to confine him to our societal rules. By all accounts, he was doing right by trying to procreate and prevent impending extinction. And the hypocrisy of it all is that while there is frequently public outcry for the poaching of endangered species, we willingly allow the only Great Mutato of the world to die out without a hint of reproach."

"But can he even be considered a 'species,' Mulder?" Scully pointed out suddenly. "You said yourself that he was the creation of genetic manipulation and experimentation—a manmade product."

"As are numerous dog breeds or plant hybrids," he countered.

"But the Great Mutato was sentient. A creature capable of thinking and operating on a human level. Despite his origins, wouldn't that make him practically human?"

"You'd have to do a DNA analysis, Scully," Mulder shrugged. "How closely is he related to you or me on a genetic level?"

"While a valid point," she assented, "that wasn't what I was trying to stress. I meant to say that if he can operate to the level of cognitive thinking and reasoning as your everyday human being, that he should be capable of understanding the unspoken rules of human society. Rules such as you don't drug and rape women in attempt to procreate."

"Not necessarily," Mulder asserted. "His hermitic upbringing at the hands of his father coupled with his fanatical devotion to specific articles—among them peanut butter sandwiches and Cher—suggest him to be a sort of fetishist with a very limited understanding of social norms."

"He was educated, though, Mulder!" Scully retorted in frustration. "A modern day Frankenstein if there ever was one!" Despite her increasing aggravation with her partner's argument, she still found herself dancing with him. She clenched and unclenched the fingers around his hand, realizing her grip had been tightening as he exacerbated her annoyance.

"Frankenstein's monster," Mulder corrected smoothly. "A common misconception because of the 1931 movie starring Boris Karloff—"

"I'm familiar with the movie," Scully swiftly cut him off. "And you very well know I was referencing the Mary Shelley novel." Mulder smiled at her teasingly, then suddenly swung her to his other arm, spinning her outward before pulling her back to him. Scully felt a little flushed after the unexpected action, but found herself smiling. Nonetheless, she wasn't about to let their conversation drop when she might have him pinned down. "Well?" she demanded with a laugh. "How do you explain the Great Mutato being as educated as he was and yet unfamiliar with society's rules?" Mulder shrugged.

"He got his book learnin' real good," he offered in a stereotypical southern twang. She swatted him lightly on the arm, and he chuckled in return.

"I'm serious, Mulder." He shrugged again.

"I'm not sure, Scully," he said honestly. "Perhaps his father was a strict teacher in his youth. Perhaps he frequently read science journals since those were the only things he could get his hands on. His long-term isolation from society would make him sociologically and conversationally stunted, though."

"Gee, I wonder who that reminds me of," Scully smirked up to her partner. His mouth popped open and he scoffed.

"You forget that my isolation is self-inflicted, and I have the capacity to go out and interact with the masses. I just lack the motivation to."

"Ah," Scully nodded in mock seriousness, "so I should consider myself lucky to be one of the privileged few you agreeably see on a daily basis."

"Scully, you should be downright honored," he stressed. "I don't pull out these moves for just anyone." Scully quirked an eyebrow just in time to be unexpectedly dipped. The floor came rushing up toward her and she hastily grabbed at Mulder's shoulder. Feeling as if she were inches from the ground, she stopped.

"Jesus!" she breathed, staring up at her partner's bemused smile. "Warn me next time, Mulder." He carefully righted her, holding her steady as she got her feet under her. Once safe on the ground, she blew at a strand of hair in her face. Mulder chuckled and tucked it behind her ear while still holding her firmly by her waist. "Thank you," she said after taking in a breath. Mulder resumed his previous position, raising a hand to take her own.

"Should we finish our dance?"

"That wasn't a climactic enough ending?" she returned.

"At least until the end of the song?" He gestured to the stereo where Cher's crooning was still commencing.

"Fine," she responded, taking his hand once more. "Just watch it next time," she added as a mild threat, glowering up at the man before her despite the fact she was about a head shorter than him.

"Well then," Mulder began, trying to stray away from Scully's not-so-idle threat. She might be significantly smaller than him, but she had that fiery Irish temper, and he knew her to be good with a gun. "Back to the Great Mutato. Since our discussion was based on an amalgamation of philosophical, moral, and psychological arguments and theories dating back over the centuries, I don't think we'll ever know the truth about him."

"But you still think he shouldn't be found guilty of rape?" she asked, picking up the bait. The last few bars of the latest Cher song played and the tracks switched once again. Mulder punched the "stop" button on the stereo and released Scully, considering her statement for a moment before reworking it to his purposes.

"I question whether society can justify their condemnation of him as a guilty man given the peculiarities of his case—namely his status as an outsider as determined by his physical appearance and irregular upbringing." Scully stared at her partner, unconsciously crossing her arms.

"If that's the standard you set to second guess court-appointed judgments, what makes the Great Mutato so different from Eddie Van Blundht? I mean, difficult livelihoods and personal struggles—despite the hardships and unfortunate 'outsider' status associated with it—don't merit breaking the law."

"I didn't say it was a standard," Mulder replied. "I was speaking specifically on the case and circumstances surrounding the Great Mutato. Van Blundht deserved exactly what he got." Mulder's eyes darkened some as he recalled the baby-faced culprit.

"But he was alike to Mutato. Physically disfigured, though to a lesser extent. Ostracized from society due to issues with self-esteem and fear of rejection."

"But Eddie Van Blundht was a product of society. He grew up alongside other children and peers; he likely went to school and developed within the modern sociological structure. While his upbringing might have been a bit abnormal given his father's involvement in the circus, it is still a perfectly credible way to grow up and count among the general populace of society."

"And so you're differentiating between the two of them based on that assertion?"

"Yes, because Van Blundht had no natural prerogative to do what he did outside his own selfish reasons. He was born with a miraculous gift: the ability to shapeshift at will. If he had kept the details to himself, he might have been able to lead a cozy, commodious lifestyle, though likely through illegal means. If he went to the government, he would have been poked, prodded, and no doubt subjected to intense testing to determine the genetic origins behind his ability. But he chose neither of those options; he opted to take advantage of women instead, blaming his transgressions on an overly-critical father and a supposed closed-minded, cruel society that frequently ridiculed him while simultaneously excusing his actions as acts of benevolence. Namely giving couples who were struggling to conceive what they desired most—a child."

"Not to mention giving that single mother—"

"Amanda Nelligan," Mulder offered.

"Yes," Scully said with a nod. "Not to mention giving her the Jedi of her dreams."

"The Force was certainly with her," Mulder teased. Scully nodded thoughtfully as her gaze strayed to the couch next to them. She rested a hand against the top of it.

"And then he tried to do the same with me."

"I didn't know you had a thing for Luke Skywalker, Scully," Mulder smiled, trying to make light of the serious turn in the conversation. She quickly shot him a look and it brought him back down to earth. He tried to catch her eye, and she stared blankly at the couch. "The important thing is that he didn't succeed."

"Only because you showed up in the nick of time. If you hadn't, Mulder, I don't know what would have happened."

"He was that convincing?" Mulder asked, his eyes naturally widening in curiosity. He and Scully had talked about the Van Blundht incident briefly following its occurrence, but the both of them were still in mutual states of shock and embarrassment. The talking amounted to very little and both their final case reports were fairly brief on the matter. With a number of years having passed, hopefully the old wound had healed some and Scully would be more open to conversation.

"He made mistakes," Scully admitted, rubbing her eyes. "Looking back, I realize he did a lot of things that should have sent up red flags, but I ignored them for whatever reason or another. Ultimately, he came at me with a version of you I hadn't really seen before." She gestured to her partner's tall form.

"And that was?" he pressed, looking for clarification.

"A man not wholly obsessed with his work. Who came for social calls and was willing to set aside the stresses of life in favor of good company and conversation. To just talk."

"And what do you call this, Scully?" Mulder gestured around her apartment. The TV with the movie still snuggly wedged into the VCR; recently washed dishes; an idly sitting stereo.

"It was three years ago, Mulder," Scully reminded him, leaning back against the couch. Mulder remained in place, standing a few feet away by the armoire. "And we weren't where we are now. And I still had cancer at the time."

Mulder winced at the memory of Scully's periodic bloody noses followed by her strained insistences that everything was alright. Her eyes were wild in those moments, terrified yet trying so hard to be resilient and strong in the face of adversity. She didn't want to be seen as weak and helpless, and Mulder refrained from looking at her with pity, but he wished to God that she would slow down and take time for herself. It was as if she thought that one falter in her step would spell her doom, and she had to keep straining forward in their cases and in her everyday life to maintain the illusion that all was well.

And it would be during such a time that she would look for someone to share her burden and draw close to. Just someone to reminisce with on times past, and for better or worse, Eddie Van Blundht found himself fitting perfectly into that role.

Mulder should really have found the time to make such cheery house calls. Even just to add some levity to the dismal happenings.

"I should have been there, Scully," Mulder said suddenly. She looked at her partner quizzically. "During your cancer," he explained. She shook her head.

"You were fine, Mulder," she replied with ease. "You helped me when it mattered. It's just Eddie's attempts left me completely uncertain of myself. For me to look into his eyes—your eyes, I guess—and not see the lie. And then to let him kiss me."

"Would you have welcomed it?" Mulder deadpanned, meeting her eyes. There was no jealousy or upset in his tone; just curiosity—eagerness to understand her position and what she had gone through. The psychologist in him was at work.

"Thinking it was you?" she returned, watching his green orbs. "I would have accepted it. I probably would have continued it." She paused for a second to stare blankly at nothing in particular before returning Mulder's gaze again. "But even while thinking it was you, I didn't encourage it. He tried to kiss me; I didn't reciprocate the movement."

"Because you weren't interested?" Mulder questioned.

"Because I didn't know what to do, I guess," Scully sighed. "I'd certainly considered the notion back then…." She smiled in mild embarrassment. "But I sort of froze." Mulder nodded, musing on the ramifications of that answer.

"Nerves will do that to you," he replied lightly, but the gears in his head were spinning at a furious pace.

Fear, he thought to himself. Fear of getting close, becoming intimate, especially with the foreknowledge that death was near. Now that sounds familiar. Mulder had to keep himself from rolling his eyes. He hastily worked to steer his mind back to the topic at hand; he would have more time to worry about his own oncoming death knell later when he was alone in his apartment with his thoughts. As for Scully, Van Blundht had forced her to come face-to-face with a very real fear for her, that of becoming too attached.

After years of working with her, Mulder had learned how to read his partner, and he could easily perceive both her character strengths and weaknesses. Personal attachment was something she frequently and inherently struggled with. He knew that struggle had been even more intrusive when she was sick with cancer, and yet when Eddie Van Blundht came knocking on her door, she opened up. She met that fear head-on and was prepared to act in defiance of it. Talking to Van Blundht about times' past and going so far as to willingly, albeit hesitantly, accept a kiss. But the revelation that he was not, in fact, Mulder had worsened everything for her.

"Nerves don't excuse my ignorance to the truth," Scully suddenly said, sharply looking up at Mulder. "From the moment I opened my door, I should have seen he wasn't you." Even after a few years, she was still kicking herself over the incident.

"You were meant to mistake him for me," Mulder readily replied, hoping to assuage her guilt. "That was the purpose of the deception, Scully. He targeted women who were looking for something out of life-whether it was a child or a listening ear, and he became an embodiment of those hopes and dreams while in a familiar physical form. Someone those women would trust implicitly-loved ones or beloved fictional heroes. And he would offer them what they wanted so long as he was able to distort those desires for his personal gain, in this case to appease his very active libido." He paused and worked his jaw for a moment. "Ultimately, he told those women exactly what they wanted to hear, and so they would fail to perceive his obfuscation." Scully's bright eyes stared into his own.

"So being a woman leaves me inherently open to manipulation," Scully remarked sourly. "Stereotypical female characteristics include reacting positively to an attentive partner, usually due to simple flattery or prolonged conversation about pointless subjects, and constructing strong emotional ties with close friends and family. I fulfilled both stereotypes that day, and that made me the perfect candidate for exploitation."

Mulder didn't want Scully to think any less of herself for failing to see through Van Blundht's deception. He had trained himself at the art, learning how to mimic someone while simultaneously presenting a side to them that was meant to win anyone over, and since he could shape-shift, there was no reason for anyone to logically suspect him.

"He knew those wives wouldn't reject their husbands," Mulder reminded her. "And that you wouldn't reject me." He studied Scully carefully, hoping he hadn't added salt to an already smarting wound. She gave no reaction. "It was all reward without the risk," he concluded. "A perfect opportunity for a man like him." Scully sighed and dipped her head to stare at the wooden floor.

"I don't want to believe people like him exist. Opportunists who only seek to take advantage of others in moments of weakness."

"You've seen it first-hand, Scully," Mulder returned, not seeing the point in avoiding the truth or trying to sugarcoat it. "Every time we investigate a crime, we're looking at the work of an opportunist." He shrugged helplessly.

"Yes, and that's what scares me," she admitted quietly. She rolled her head sideways to get a better look at her partner.

"What do you mean?" Mulder asked, taking a small step closer to her. Though he had a distinct feeling he already knew: because of people like Eddie Van Blundht, her fear had become compounded. She slowly learned to fear not only attachment, but perhaps even other people altogether. Other people could be two-faced, and trusting strangers meant you were giving them the opportunity to openly harm you.

"I'm well aware that predators of varied sadistic interests and fascinations exist. I know that as an agent of the Bureau it's my job to stop such predators, but do you have any idea of how hard that is to do when I am repeatedly the object of their intent? When I'm the victim more often than not?" She paused, giving Mulder time to interject as he often would, but he said nothing. He sensed there was more she wanted to say, and wanted her to finish her thought. She sighed. "How am I expected to protect when I'm the one frequently victimized and otherwise incapable of defending myself?"

"'Incapable'?" Mulder echoed back. "I would say you're far from incapable, Scully. I mean, you've survived it all. You even stopped Donnie Pfaster a few months back."

"You already know my opinion on that, Mulder," she said in a strained tone. "I shouldn't have reacted as I did. If the Bureau knew what happened, they'd have my badge and gun."

"You didn't do what was 'right' according to the letter of the law, but you and I both know life isn't that black and white," Mulder pressed. "If Pfaster had escaped again, there'd be no end to his killings. You prevented the chance that he could cause more pain."

"Even so, it was poor judgment on my part," she resisted. "An involuntary action that shouldn't have happened in the first place. And it all ultimately felt like I wasn't in control of myself." Mulder nodded.

"I wonder if we aren't sometimes," he pondered aloud. "In control, that is." She glanced up at him in confusion. "There's a darkness in all of us, and sometimes people like Pfaster bring that darkness to the forefront. Remember what happened to Bill Patterson?" he added in attempt to add some credence to his point. "To understand the monster, you have to become the monster."

"And he certainly became one," Scully admitted softly. "I wonder if I did, too, if only for a moment."

"Patterson let John Mostow get to him," Mulder argued. "Three years of chasing that man, living in his infernal world of blood and art, and Patterson lost his grip on reality." Mulder stared at his petite partner, a woman avidly afraid of what killing Pfaster had meant for her. He firmly put a hand to her shoulder, forcing her to relinquish her place against the couch and turn to face him. "Losing control for a moment doesn't mean you've become the monster," he said slowly. "You've seen me go through much worse-when we were looking into Mostow or John Lee Roche, for example. And neither of us are consumed by darkness. We're just questioning what constitutes right and wrong."

"But I know I was wrong, Mulder," she automatically responded. "I should not have killed Donald Pfaster under those circumstances." Mulder saw that he was not getting through to her in the way he wanted to. He dropped his hands to his sides.

"You were only wrong when you view it from the lens of our modern-day established society," Mulder retaliated. "Remember John Barnett? More commonly remembered as the man with the salamander hand." Mulder wriggled his fingers at Scully for effect. She nodded. "In 1989, during a sting operation, I had a clear shot on Barnett, and I didn't take it because of FBI protocol. My inaction resulted in the deaths of two men."

"I remember," Scully acceded.

"When we later caught up with Barnett in '94, he pulled the same trick on me, thinking he'd stopped me in my tracks again," Mulder continued. "Only that time, I didn't hesitate. I shot the bastard in the stomach." He paused for dramatic effect and ensured he had her eyes trained on him. "And Scully, I don't regret that for one instant. Barnett, Pfaster... They're the same kind of sick animal, and they don't deserve anything more than a second chance because once that chance for redemption is up, they become an immediate risk to everything and everyone. As far as I'm concerned, you had every right to kill him." Scully smiled doubtfully up at her partner.

"You explain it away like it's all so easy," she about whined. Mulder wondered if her weariness was catching up with her. She seemed more in the mood to vent frustrations than argue the fine points of complex philosophical quandaries. "That everyone should be able to accept such a mode of thinking after having killed, if only to justify their actions."

"Taking a life isn't easy, Scully," he conceded with a sigh. "You know that as well as I. Doing so without 'just cause'—a term strictly defined by our benevolent government—makes it all the harder. More often than not, you're shunned as a renegade, one who cannot keep to decorum because you had the presence of mind to think for yourself, and more importantly, to think outside the carefully considered box of proper procedure as determined by a rigidly limited view of the world and the capabilities of man."

"You sound like an anarchist, Mulder," Scully remarked, cautiously meeting her partner's eyes. Mulder considered retracting his comments, but decided on clarifying them instead.

"It's not that I believe in the dissolution of government. As much as it's a pain in the ass, it's necessary to keep day-to-day life from falling into mass chaos. I do protest the inane concept that every iota of life must be clearly defined, categorized, and filed away. That brand of thinking only sustains a lesser quality of life based on the ignorance of the individual, and thus preserves mankind's inability to consider a manner of living outside one's personal life experiences. The everyday populace could not even conceive of the things you and I have seen because it does not correlate with the the government sanctioned definition of 'reality.' I mean, how often have you and I stumbled on a case only to have the local law enforcement laugh it all off as science fiction?"

"Frequently," she responded with a knowing nod.

"And how often have our cases proven to be just as bizarre and surreal as they seem?"

"Almost always," Scully nodded again. "Most of the X-Files we've investigated can be attributed to paranormal or unexplainable phenomena."

'Exactly!" Mulder asserted. "And it's that sort of mental obstinacy that unfairly prosecutes people like you and me for taking the lives of men like Barnett and Pfaster. If our actions do not fit into the parameters of the ideal FBI agent, our efforts are seen as a waste of government resources."

"You and I have seen plenty of that, Mulder," Scully noted, "considering our frequent OPR hearings regarding the manner of our investigations and their consequential findings."

"And all that those meetings accomplish is to prevent us from completing our jobs."

"We're field agents, Mulder. We're not meant to be judge, jury, and execution," Scully intoned.

"Except in those circumstances when we have been fired upon and are in immediate danger ourselves," Mulder returned. "Then we're allowed to take lethal action. At the time I apprehended Donald Pfaster, you could have been in immediate danger." Mulder's eyes flashed. He was intentionally stretching the truth. Scully blamed herself for enough; she shouldn't have to question the permissibility of her actions in killing a known serial killer. And one that had just sought harm upon her, no less. One that had intended to kill her in the past.

"But I wasn't in danger," Scully discounted while shaking her head. "I was free from my bindings, and you had him in hand." Mulder wasn't going to change her mind on the matter. Her moral compass was shaken, and she was unwilling to accept the notion that her actions were justified. But even if that were the case, there had to be a reason behind those actions.

"So why do you think you did it?" Mulder asked softly.

"I told you. I don't know." Scully shook her head again.

"You told me you didn't feel in control of your actions," he corrected. "You didn't say why you acted as you did."

Of course, he knew it all went back to Pfaster's previous assaults on Scully. The first incident had about broken her. Mulder recalled a young, auburn-haired Scully shaking and sobbing in his arms after her rescue. He had just silently held her to him, protectively wrapping his arms around her and pressing his face to the top of her head. It took minutes of them standing like that before she was able to compose herself somewhat. After she released him, she fought at the gag wrapped around her neck, trying to remove it with shaking hands. Mulder carefully helped her, handing off the fabric to a nearby agent who hastily bagged it. He did the same with her wrist restraints. Once free, she tightly gripped Mulder's jacket, casting her eyes about for something. Mulder asked if she wanted to sit down again. Scully said she wanted to get out of the house. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he led her from the location and out into the yard. Paramedics rushed forward to attend to her. She repeatedly croaked, "I'm fine," but Mulder knew that was far from the truth.

Pfaster's second attack had goaded her into action. She refused to be broken by the man again. Rather than breaking down and requiring Mulder's help in being released from makeshift bindings, she freed herself. And rather than repeatedly claiming she was fine, she showed Pfaster that she was fine by punching a bullet through his chest.

Mulder wanted to hear as much from her, though. Maybe if she voiced such thoughts aloud, she'd rid herself of the accompanying guilt.

"I wanted to destroy all he stood for," Scully said impassively after a moment's silence and contemplation. "All the Eugene Tooms and Duane Barrys and Phillip Padgetts. All those men who kidnapped or sought to kill me."

Scully's answer struck a depth that Mulder hadn't anticipated, but it helped him get a fuller picture of his partner. It was true that Eddie Van Blundht's merciless doppleganger trick had made her more wary of people-but it was of men specifically. Men who had terrorized and victimized her all throughout her career as a field agent. Mulder had wrongly written off her earlier voiced fears of being incapable. The moments when she had competently succeeded in stopping an enemy or solving a case didn't matter. All she saw were the times when she was overpowered and summarily overcome. When she was disarmed, bound or drugged, oftentimes a combination of the three, and helplessly at another's mercy.

Mulder hadn't realized that the occurrence happened so frequently. His mind ran back over their various cases together and he tried to recount all the times Scully had been subdued. Names came to mind: Enoch O'Connor, Leonard Betts, and Gerry Schnauz among them. Not to mention men like Van Blundht, Pfaster, and the others Scully had named. Most of them were dead, but that didn't relieve Scully of the trauma of having suffered through such events at their hands.

"I hadn't realized, Scully," he said seriously, carefully observing her. She knew exactly what he was doing.

"I don't want your pity, Mulder," she warned. Her stance stiffened and she eyed him warily.

"No," Mulder complied. "And I wasn't going to give it to you." He knew better than to pity Scully. That was the last sort of reaction she'd want from anyone. It would only serve as a further example of her weakness. He had to find a way to bolster her confidence in her abilities. "I only mean to say I hadn't realized the degree to which you suffered." Scully crossed her arms and let out a sigh.

"I'm not ignorant, Mulder," she suddenly remarked, as if he needed further explanation. "I know the risks that come with being in law enforcement, especially in being a field agent for the Bureau. And I don't mind the majority of the cases we investigate-the deadly pathogens and parasitic lifeforms we have come in contact with. I don't mind putting myself at risk in that way, but I do care that the subjects of our cases so frequently follow me to my doorstep." She took a breath and pointed to her front door.

"I mean, do you realize that that's where Melissa was killed?" Mulder turned to stare at the apartment's doorway; he had, of course, known of Melissa's death and that she had been assassinated in Scully's apartment, but he'd never considered the precise location or the how Scully's proximity to it might affect her. "And then there's the other times I was attacked," Scully continued. "Duane Barry grabbed me here." She gestured to the bay windows standing a few feet from them. Mulder remembered the morning after her abduction in vivid detail; the splintered and shattered coffee table, the smashed phone, the blood and hair dotting the area here and there. It about made his blood run cold to consider it again. "And Tooms nearly killed me over there." She waved a hand off toward the direction of her bathroom. Mulder clearly remembered that incident as well. "Hell, Mulder, it's hard to feel safe in one's own home when the maniacs you chase down for a living come find you." She stared up at her partner as if daring him to defy her statement. He did no such thing, insteading returning her gaze. Suddenly, she laughed, a darkly ironic sort of laugh. "Then there are the men out in the field that try to do me in. And I mean in a way more than just aiming a gun at me or coming at me with a knife," she added sharply, as if afraid he was going to shrug off her concerns as being just part of the job.

"I never took it that way," Mulder quickly reassured her. Scully was suddenly opening up a lot to him in a short time. First with all the questions of her future and the subsequent romp in his bed; now with all the insecurities from her past. Despite her ever-constant insistence that she was "fine" and that she could manage things on her own, Mulder saw a Scully that had some inner demons she needed to face. And despite her reluctance to accept his help, he wanted to do just that. It was the least he could do to help her prepare for the future.

"Scully," he said slowly, making sure she was maintaining eye contact before he continued. "I just want you to know that I'm here if you need me." She smiled appreciatively, but it looked to Mulder to be an obligatory smile rather than an authentic one. As always, she didn't want to appear powerless.

"I know, Mulder," she responded. "But this is something I have to face on my own." Mulder stepped forward, trying to ascertain whether Scully would consent to his touch. She wrapped her arms around his waist, and he circled his around her torso, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.


End file.
